


If Memory Serves

by sarahbeniel



Series: Forever is Now [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: BAMF Loki (Marvel), Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Canon Divergence - Post-Thor: The Dark World, Crack Treated Seriously, Darcy Lewis-typical salty language, Darcy/Loki only in flashbacks, Dialogue Heavy, Established Relationship, F/M, Feels, Fertility Issues, Fuck or Die (with consent), Jotunn Loki (Marvel), Little Droplets of Fluff Sprinkled In, Loki Needs a Friend, Loki Needs a Hug, Memory Loss, Sad Loki, Some soft-core sex later on, These are not the Tasertricks you're looking for, This was supposed to be silly and now everyone's hugging and crying, but mostly people just talking and being dorks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2019-10-25 18:45:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 102,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17730617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahbeniel/pseuds/sarahbeniel
Summary: Bucky and Darcy are taking a little vacation in a cozy cottage upstate.  Steve has come up for the night, and they are enjoying a friendly game of Scrabble when an unexpected visitor arrives, revealing a shocking truth from someone’s past...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Re:the Rating--> My smut tends to hover in some confusing grey-area between M and E. I feel that this story belongs best in M, where it will reach more readers and not let down E readers who want hard core smut.
> 
> A note on the “fuck-or-die” tag: it’s a plot element, but the way it plays out is clearly consensual (as much as possible in the situation). It still could be triggery because of the situation in general, though, which is why I made a point to tag it.
> 
> The events here take place about 6 years after "Meet Me at Sunset", but before the Epilogue of that story.
> 
> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)  
> 

“ _Fuck-sweat_ is totally a word!”

Darcy was directing all of her good-natured frustration at Steve, who was sitting across from her at the little card table, a deliberately (and utterly full-of-shit) innocent look on his face. She’d studied the Scrabble board for a good twenty minutes, both of the guys heckling her to “ _Go, already_ ,” when she’d finally seen the solution, cackling as she’d laid out all seven of her tiles, bisecting not one but two of the words already placed on the board.

“Why, just this afternoon,” she continued, “Bucky here had the most magnificent sheen of fuck-sweat all over his chest and his abs and his—”

“Okay, okay,” said Steve, finally breaking into a laugh as he put his hand up in surrender. “Jeez. I know what it _is_ … I’m just sayin’… it ain’t a _real_ word.” Then he frowned. “Hey, is that why you sent me out to chop wood for two hours? Jeez, you guys…”

Bucky was just grinning, his lower lip caught under his teeth as he leaned back, balancing his chair on its rear two legs as he gave Darcy a smoky look…

“It’s _totally_ a real word,” she said, tearing her eyes away from Bucky’s face, which was doing warm things to her nether regions. God, the man was insatiable. And, to be fair, so was she. They’d rented the cabin for a week, wanting to get away from the city before their next job started, and all they’d done for the first four days and nights was eat and screw. Which was not all that different from what they did during their down-time at the Tower, but something about the new environment— the cozy little upstate cabin, warmed by a flickering fireplace, out in the middle of nowhere, hemmed in by trees and snowdrifts and the silence of the surrounding wood… it’d brought out something feral in both of them that’d been lacking in their lovemaking lately…

Steve had come up for a night, a pre-arranged visit that they were now somewhat regretting, as it’d interrupted their apparently unquenchable thirst for each other. They’d managed to sneak in a couple of quickies, and a longer bout during Steve's wood-chopping assignment, but it still wasn’t enough…

“Don’t you pull out that stupid little dictionary, Steven Grant,” said Darcy. “I bet that thing was written by nuns. They probably never got a chance to experience the glory of fuck-sweat, poor things…”

Steve was indeed pulling out the little paperback dictionary, but he was laughing as he did it, having a good time, enjoying Darcy’s lewd imagery… “See?” he said, quickly finding the relevant page. “It goes straight from ‘fuci’ to ‘fucoid’… there’s no ‘fuck’ even, and certainly no ‘fuck-sweat’.”

“How the fuck can you have a dictionary that doesn’t have ‘fuck’ in it?” asked Darcy, outraged. “For God's sake— I bet you can’t even tell me what ‘fucoid’ means, but you sure as hell obviously know what ‘fuck-sweat’ is, so tell me: which of those is the _real_ word? Huh? huh? huh?”

“Well, in any case,” said Steve, the humorously calm look back on his face as he closed the little maroon book and set it back on the table, “fuck-sweat would be hyphenated, and that disqualifies it automatically.”

“He’s got you there, doll,” said Bucky, grinning. “Fuck-sweat _would_ be hyphenated…”

“You just don’t want me to get the 50-point bonus for using all my letters,” grumbled Darcy as she removed her tiles from the board. She put them back into her little tile-rack, took a few seconds to consider, and then slammed down a single tile— the letter ‘T’— to make the word ‘it.’

“There. You happy? Two fucking points.”

“Aw, don’t be like that, sweetheart,” said Bucky, lowering his chair back down to all four of its legs. “You ain’t even trying now.”

“Just admit to me fuck-sweat’s a _real word_ and I’ll be happy,” she said.

“Of course it’s a real word,” said a new voice, deep and sonorous and accented in what sounded vaguely British to her ears.

The three of them scrambled to their feet, facing the door, which seemed to be the origin of the incorporeal words. Darcy jumped behind Bucky’s big body, and he backed them up slowly, protecting her, as the voice continued to speak. Steve, lacking his shield, simply put up his fists, readying for a fight.

“The nine realms have a multitude of words for the concept. You Midgardians are simply too prudish to register such words in your official language books. It’s sad, really…”

A figure was materializing in the entryway— his clothing was crafted of full-length, expensive-looking leathers that instantly branded him as either alien or some kind of ultra-serious cosplayer. Darcy was betting on alien, what with the materializing and all. He was tall and lithe with dark, flowing hair, and as he came more into focus, and they could finally make out his face and the wicked smile upon it, Darcy and Steve said his name in unison, their voices conveying equal parts shock and dread:

“ _Loki_.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Loki?” said Bucky, still trying to shield Darcy with his body. “As in—”

“Leader of the Chitauri invasion of New York,” said Steve, his eyes never wavering from the man standing before them. “Liar. Murderer.” And then, as an afterthought, “Brother of Thor, if that even means anything anymore…”

“But you’re dead,” said Darcy. “Jane saw you die…” She was peering at him from behind the solid frame of Bucky’s body, curious in spite of herself, having only seen him in photographs and shitty online videos.

He was tall— taller than Steve and Bucky— though not as broad, even in his head-to-toe leather outfit. His pants and long-sleeved shirt were crafted of rich black leather with green and gold accents, complete with some kind of ornamental leather codpiece over his trousers, and the cape that hung from his shoulders was a deep forest green. He lacked the obnoxious horned helmet she’d seen in pictures, and his jet-black shoulder-length hair was worn soft and loose. It had a slight wave to it, which surprised her for some reason. He looked as though he’d stepped straight out of a book of fairy tales— his look equally suited to hero or villain…

“Hello, sweetling,” he said, addressing Darcy directly for the first time.

Something about his voice— the velvety purr as he spoke to her— and the way his emerald eyes tried to trace down the line of her body, made Bucky’s jaw clench, and he reasserted his defensive stance in front of her.

“Watch it, Buck,” said Steve. “Can’t punch your way through this one.” Steve had his eyes fixed on Loki, but he could practically smell the heat of his friend’s anger— Bucky was like a bull bearing down on a toreador, tensing and preparing to attack.

“Who said anything about punching,” Bucky growled, and Darcy sucked in her breath when she realized that he was holding a blade in his right hand. She gently gripped his bicep from behind, warning him, trying to steady him with her touch…

Loki’s eyes had caught the glint of the blade as well, and he tilted his head slightly to the side, his thin lips pressed together in amusement as he silently assessed the other man, noting the way the girl hovered behind him, her fingers wrapped around his arm. “I don’t think we’ve met,” he said to Bucky, his tone cordial, as though they were being introduced at a business luncheon.

Bucky didn’t reply, standing firm under the scrutiny, acutely aware that he was being evaluated, the other man’s eyes like a raptor— keen and fiercely intelligent, missing nothing.

“What do you want, Loki,” said Steve, his voice hard.

“Why aren’t you dead?” said Darcy. “Thor said—”

“A ruse, I’m afraid,” said Loki, and then he sighed, and made a noise of such routine irritation that it was almost comical— like someone who’d arrived at the grocery store only to realize he’d left his shopping list at home. “I’d not anticipated having to deal with more of his… companions,” he said. “We’ll need to ensure that word does not reach—”

“You threatening us?” said Bucky, low, and his fingers tensed on the handle of the blade, and Darcy almost whimpered, firming her hold on Bucky’s bicep, knowing they were no match for the Asgardian… Frost Giant… whatever he was…

“Good heavens, no,” said Loki, and he almost chuckled, and relaxed his stance and said, “The truth is that I’m here because I…” He trailed off, looking down, and when he lifted his head again, he was almost frowning. “It pains me to say it, but I need your help.” His voice, his expressions— they were too easy, like someone reading lines on stage, with none of the authenticity to support them.

Then he stopped and centered his gaze on Darcy, who was still peeking out from behind Bucky, and suddenly his words had weight: “Specifically, _hers_.”

“Easy, Buck,” said Steve, again feeling the tension radiating off his friend, like something thick, palpable in the air. Steve breathed out and tried to keep his focus on the Asgardian. “Enough of this,” he said. “Tell us why you’re here.”

“I’d really rather not discuss it with _the room_ ,” said Loki. “It’s a private matter, between me and Miss Lewis.” He started to step forward. “If I could just borrow her for—”

The blade left Bucky’s hand with perfect timing— vicious, and quick as lightning— and it would have struck a mortal wound in any breathing human being, but Loki simply reached up his hand and picked it out of the air, casually, as though his reflexes were operating on an entirely different path through space-time.

He raised one of his eyebrows in consideration of the knife he now held, pursing his lips, while the three humans held their breath, frozen, watching him, waiting…

“I see you’ve some skill with a blade,” he finally said, turning the knife over in his hand, and then his eyes flicked back to the sturdy, dark-haired man before him. “Admirable. But I assure you, you’ve no need for it here.” And then he tossed it back— a return of property, rather than an attack.

Bucky grabbed it from the air in a less elegant echo of Loki’s earlier move, and then lowered his arm, but he kept the knife there, ready in his hand. “What do you want,” he said, shifting his feet back into a solid stance. “Tell it straight.”

Loki was pacing a bit now, looking agitated, and he pinched his forehead with his hand, and finally he said, “Perhaps it’d be easier if…” and then he looked at Darcy again, let out a short breath and said, “Forgive me…” He made a quick gesture with his hand, and Darcy gasped and stumbled a little, backing up toward the fireplace.

“Darcy?!?” There was fear in Bucky’s voice as he sprang to help her, the knife falling from his hand as he frantically searched her body for a wound…

In the same moment, Steve said, “What did you do?” and he took a step toward Loki, angry and tense, glancing quickly between Darcy, where she was crumbling in Bucky’s arms, and Loki, who actually looked remorseful in the face of her obvious distress.

“Oh my God,” said Darcy, and she put her hand out, her legs failing her, and Bucky wrapped an arm around her body, taking all of her weight, and then she said it again: “Oh my God.”

“What is it?” said Bucky, his voice breaking with worry. “Are you hurt? Can you breathe? What did he do?!?”

“Oh my God,” she said a third time, and then her face turned from shock to anger, and she said, “Oh my _fucking_ God, that was _real_?!?” And Bucky breathed out a little in relief as he recognized that she was processing confusion and outrage, rather than pain, but he kept his arms around her as she struggled to regain her composure.

She was sputtering now: “I _knew_ it! Oh my God, I _knew_ there was something… those fuckers after New Mexico, they had me thinking I was crazy, but this whole time I was _right_ ; I was fucking _right_ — I mean, I couldn’t remember what exactly… but I knew something weird had—”

And then her anger turned into something else— a horrified look, and she was stumbling again, and Bucky was holding her up, helping her get to a chair, and she said, “Oh my God,” again, but this time it was soft. “We actually… oh my _God_ … I think I’m gonna be sick… I need to…”

And she sat down heavily at the card table, and Bucky was crouching next to her, rubbing her back, repeatedly asking her what was the matter, if she was okay, and Steve looked hard at Loki, who had a sheepish look on his face now.

“Explain,” said Steve, in his best, stern, Captain America voice. “ _Now_.”

Bucky was still stroking Darcy’s back, and he said, softly, “Sweetheart, what is it. Tell us what’s happening.”

But when Darcy finally spoke, it was to Loki. “I thought… I thought we had an agreement.” Her voice was shaking now, and she almost laughed, a nervous sound. “What was it? ‘What happens on Auedix 5 _stays_ on Auedix 5?’”

“I’m truly very sorry,” said Loki, his head tipped down, only glancing up for a few seconds at a time to monitor their positions in the room.

“Would someone please tell me what the _hell_ is going on?” said Steve, and now his barely-contained anger was extending to Darcy as well, as he tried to make sense of her words. “Darcy, talk to me. Is there something you’ve been keeping from us? Do you— do you _know_ him? Have you been... _traveling_ with him?”

“Back off, Steve,” said Bucky, glancing back to scowl at his friend. “For God’s sake. Look at her.”

Darcy’s entire body was shaking now, and she was rocking a little in her seat, and Bucky smoothed his hand on her thigh and then stood up and faced Loki again, squaring his stance and bearing down on him with one of his Soldier looks that he knew made regular people piss themselves.

“You better start talking,” he said. “Right now. I don’t care who you are— nobody fucks with my girl.”

“I assure you, I mean no harm,” said Loki, his hands up, palms toward the other man in a placating gesture. His eyes flicked to Darcy, who was staring blankly into space as she rocked, hugging herself with her arms. “I’m in a— well, I’m in a bit of a pickle, I’m afraid.”

“A pickle,” said Steve, incredulous, his body vibrating.

“Is that not the correct idiom?” said Loki, raising an eyebrow. “I was under the impression that—”

“Forget it,” said Steve, glancing at Bucky, who looked as though he was nearing spontaneous combustion. “What did you do to Darcy? Why is she—”

“I restored her memory,” said Loki. “Of an… encounter we previously shared.”

“An encounter,” said Bucky, his tone dangerous.

“Yes,” said Loki. “At her request, I’d clouded her memory of it, so that it needn’t trouble—”

“Why’d you restore it,” interrupted Steve. “What do you need from her.”

“Yes, well, you see…” Loki was pacing again, clearly nervous. “This is just so… I’m not accustomed to… Perhaps, if she and I could just speak _privately_ for a moment…”

“Not a chance,” said Steve.

Bucky’s flesh-and-blood hand, hanging by his side, formed itself into a fist and squeezed until all of the knuckles cracked. “Spit it out,” he said. “Or I’ll make you.”

Loki stopped pacing at that, and looked over to Bucky with raised eyebrows. “Unlikely,” he said, and then he grinned. “But I appreciate your spirit.” He was quiet then, even closing his eyes a moment, making up his mind, as the men waited, staring him down.

Finally he sighed, very dramatically, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling as he did it. “Very well,” he said. “If you must.” He began pacing again, back and forth in the entryway, as he began to explain.

“You see, the thing is, I’ve gotten myself into a bit of trouble on… well, the location’s not important…”

Steve made a rolling motion with his hand, saying _hurry it up_ , glancing sideways to Darcy, who wasn’t rocking any longer, but had a glassy look in her eyes that he recognized from young soldiers in the war, having come through an arduous battle, confused… not understanding why they were alive…

Loki was still prattling on: “… a charming young lady who was seeking my attentions, and it seems I misunderstood the uh… the _customs_ as it were, although I _assure_ you nothing at all untoward occurred, and yet her father assumed a rather poor opinion of my, eh… _regard_ for his daughter, and he’s seen fit to ah… how shall I put it… to discourage me in a rather… awkward fashion.”

“What do you mean, ‘awkward’,” said Bucky.

If it were possible for Loki to look as though he wanted to crawl under a rock, he was doing a pretty good job of it. “If I’d known their kind were inclined to such ill-mannered, barbaric incantations…”

The men were still staring at him, unmoving, and with another roll of his eyes, Loki finally spat it out: “The ungracious brute has made it so that I cannot…” He didn’t finish his statement, but rather waved his hand dramatically, palm out, near the crotch of his leather trousers.

Steve had listened to the entire speech without moving a single muscle, and now he raised one eyebrow in disbelief. “Are you tellin’ me…” He stopped, adjusted his stance and then put one hand on his hip, the other hand raised in the air as if pushing against some invisible obstacle. “So what you’re sayin’ is… you made eyes at some lady on some planet I’m sure I ain’t never heard of even if you told me… and her daddy caught wind of it and now he’s made it so you can’t…” And here too, Steve also simply waved a hand, indicating the general direction of Loki’s leather-clad crotch.

“You can’t get it up?” asked Bucky, livid, having no use for euphemisms or vague gestures while his girl was hurting. “That’s what this is somehow all about? You can’t fuckin’ get it up?”

And Steve pivoted then, turning his back to all of them, and they could hear him muttering something about _how is this even my life_ …

“Ah…” Loki’s brow furrowed and squeezed his lips together for a moment and he picked at some imaginary lint on the cuff of his leather shirt-sleeve. “It would perhaps be more accurate to say… that is, if it were only a matter of… well, if there were even an ‘ _it_ ’ to, as you so crudely put it, get ‘ _up_ ’…”

Bucky’s mouth was hanging open for a moment, and his eyes darted involuntarily to Loki’s crotch for a second: the leather codpiece served to aptly conceal any sign of… or lack of…

“You’re shittin’ me.”

“No I am _not_ —” said Loki, angry and flustered now, “as you say, ‘shitting’ you. This is a very serious problem, _very_ serious, and I’ve come here asking for your help, and I daresay—”

Bucky would have laughed, if his girl still didn’t look so distressed, for reasons that were still unclear, and if it hadn’t been _Loki_ , brother of Thor, legendary Asgardian of myth, standing in front of him telling him that his dick had been magicked away somehow… it was all too much…

In any case, he steadied himself and said, “I still don’t see what this has got to do with Darcy, or this… _encounter_ you alluded to, or why it’s got my girl so damn spooked, and you’d better start coughin’ up some—”

Loki was opening his mouth to speak, when Darcy finally turned her head, a quizzical look on her face. “How do you go to the bathroom?” she said.

Steve finally spun back around. “Really?!?” he said. “I mean, just… _really_?!? That’s the question needs asking right now?”

“Shut it, Steve,” said Bucky.

“I assure you,” said Loki, “I have the utmost respect for Miss Lewis, and I was loathe to involve her in this in any way, but I’m afraid she’s the only one I can turn to for assistance in this matter…”

“And why is that,” asked Steve dryly.

“Because I require her testimony,” said Loki. “The, eh… condition for my… _restoration_ … is that I produce at least one being who will… how shall I say it… _attest_ to my… _good character_ … in, eh… matters of…”

“You need me to tell them about the thing,” said Darcy, her voice flat.

“I do indeed,” said Loki, shutting his eyes as he exhaled quietly, as though relieved to hear that there was even a possibility she might consider it.

“What _thing_? What did he do to you?” said Bucky, his voice dangerous again.

“And why would I do this for you?” said Darcy, her own voice subdued, emotionless. “After all you’ve done to my planet. To my friends. To innocent people.” And then she stood, and showed some of the anger that was fighting to surface. “To _me_ — oh my God, that fucking Destroyer thing— do you know I still have nightmares about that?”

“I am truly sorry,” said Loki, and he sighed again and then composed himself and said, with a certain formality, “What would you ask of me.”

“Darcy, don’t,” said Steve. “Don’t enter into any bargain with him. You know as well as I do he can’t be trusted. We should call Thor— we should—”

But Darcy was shuffling forward now, and she said, carefully, her voice steady and clear, “I have one condition.” She quickly put up her hand. “Wait— make it two. Two conditions.”

“Name them,” said Loki, his hands curled into fists, his gaze locked on her face. “Name them both.”

She held his eyes as she spoke. “If I do this for you, you need to make it right. With me. And with— with them,” she said, tilting her head to indicate the other men. “I don’t want to have to remember this. Make it like it was before.”

Loki breathed out through his nose, nodded his assent. “And the other?”

She paused, letting him feel the weight of what followed. “The next time Thor asks for your assistance— really needs your help. No matter how difficult or costly to you, personally. You’ll do it. No strings attached.”

Loki let out a long breath— a full seven seconds of exhalation— but his eyes never wavered from Darcy’s. When he’d reached the end of his breath, he licked his lips and then nodded again. “Agreed.”

Darcy moved forward then, holding a hand up to Bucky to indicate _it’s okay; I got this_ , and then she held it out to Loki— an offering to shake on the deal.

His eyes dropped to her little hand for just a second, and then he swiftly moved in to accept, bypassing her hand to grasp her forearm in the old style, and she followed suit, flexing her fingers to clasp his leather-clad arm, and they held together like that for several long heartbeats, and then Loki nodded again, and stepped back with a undeniable air of decorum.

There was complete silence for a moment, and then Bucky finally broke it, his head sagging as he sighed, and he turned to Darcy, and his eyes were a little sad. “Do I even wanna ask?”

Her lip trembled a bit, but she didn’t cry. “I’m gonna need a drink.”


	3. Chapter 3

Darcy was pacing the room. “Why can’t this be like a movie, where I say something like, ‘ _It all started when_ …’ and then the screen dissolves in a bunch of wavy lines, and then there’s a flashback and I can just go hide in the bathroom until it’s over…”

Bucky came up behind her, touched her back with his prosthetic hand— they’d been test-running her latest prototype over vacation— and she turned and gave him a wan smile of thanks as he handed her a pint glass filled with red wine.

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to tell us anything, if you don’t want to,” he said. He pointedly ignored Loki’s blatant ‘ _what about me_ ,’ look when he didn’t offer any to the rest of the room, and just set the bottle down on the card table instead.

“If it’s all gonna come out, for the… testimony or whatever, I’d rather you heard it from me, first,” she said. “So you get the… you know, the context and all.”

Loki pulled his eyes away from the wine bottle and said, “If you prefer, _I_ could relate the events of…”

“No!” she said quickly, cutting him off. “I, uh… I don’t think I want to hear your, uh… version of it.” She took a big gulp of the wine, and then sighed and sat down at the card table. Bucky joined her, pulling a chair over to sit by her side, while Steve remained standing, arms crossed over his chest, keeping an eye on Loki.

“Okay, so I’m just gonna give you the basic rundown,” she said, “so we can get on with this, and do whatever we need to do, and then everything can go _back to the way it was_.” She scowled at Loki as she ground out the last part.

She took another big drink of wine and then blew out a breath. “Okay. So. It all started when…”

<<>>

[ _Puente Antiguo, New Mexico— 2011_ ]

Jane, Darcy, and Dr. Selvig were standing well back, giving Thor space as he embraced his weirdly-dressed friends— they looked like they’d just stepped off a Lord of the Rings set, and spoke as though they were still in character— and then listened as Thor tried to explain why he couldn’t return home… wherever that really was.

“Thor,” said the badass warrior lady, her voice gentle, “your father still lives…”

There was a heavy silence in the room as he seemed to process this new information. Darcy was staring at the newcomers, still trying to figure out if they were for real, or just actors or something, and almost jumped when the Robin-Hood guy winked at her.

“Be right back,” said Darcy, quietly to Jane. “Gotta pee.” Boy, things were getting weirder and weirder… her mind was racing as she shut herself into the tiny bathroom and sat down on the toilet, trying to put it all together in her head:

#1… Was it possible that Thor was actually, like, the real _Thor_ from myth?— it was either that, or he and his friends were some hard-core LARPers…

#2… If he _was_ the real Thor, then it sounded like there was some bad shit about to go down— the look on Thor’s face at the lady’s words had been classic ‘ _someone’s got some ‘splainin to do_ ’— so maybe it would be a good time to make an exit, but…

#3… She was pretty sure that Robin-Hood guy was giving her the eye, and even though he wasn’t exactly her type (she preferred the dark-haired tribe), she’d still totally hit that— she hadn’t gotten laid good and proper in far too long, and maybe if they were planning to stick around for a while…

And with lascivious thoughts on her mind, Darcy was just starting to stand and pull her underwear back up when there was a blinding burst of light and she felt like she was being sucked up by some kind of cosmic vacuum cleaner. She had about three seconds to scream— a panicked “What the fuck?!?” as the rush of sensations threatened to pull her body apart— and then everything stopped, and she felt herself fall a few feet onto a cold floor.

Instantly aware that she wasn’t alone, she scrambled to pull her pants up the rest of the way before looking around.

Okay… ‘things getting weirder and weirder’ had been a gross understatement.

She was indeed in a room— like some kind of holding cell— surrounded by a press of people, but as she recovered from the shock of apparently being _teleported through space_ — with her pants down no less— she looked around to take stock of the others around her, and quickly realized that they weren’t, uh… people. At least not in the sense that she understood the word.

Some of them were blue. Or green. Or pink. Some of them had eyes in the wrong place, or tentacle-things where the arms should be, and she was about to start laughing hysterically because this _had_ to be some fucked-up dream, or maybe there’d been an earthquake and she’d gotten hit on the head by a piece of crumbled ceiling in the bathroom, and all the Thor shit was making more sense in the context that probably _none_ of it was real, and she was willing herself to _wake up, dummy_ , when she heard a distinctly _human_ -sounding voice, speaking crisp, British-accented English:

“Damn. Not again.”

She whirled around, searching for the source of the voice, and saw a young man… some kind of soldier, judging by his attire. He couldn’t have been more than a handful of years older than herself, though something about his bearing suggested life experience far more reaching than the twenty-one years Darcy claimed.

He was tall, perhaps lanky beneath his thick clothing, with pale white skin and mid-length jet-black hair that was neatly combed back from his face. There was a weariness to his features, but his bright eyes stood out a startling crystal green as he scanned the room.

He seemed to be in a military-style dress uniform, made of dark leather and molded strips of golden metal, and with the overall look of it, and the serious cast to his otherwise young face, Darcy wondered if he’d been whisked away from some kind of space battle.

She pushed her way carefully through the eclectic crowd of creatures, careful not to touch any of them. As she drew close to him, she hissed in a loud whisper, so that she could be heard above the odd rumblings of the alien voices around them, “Dude— hey you— you speak English?”

He looked up, startled, and seemed about to answer, when one of the blue-tentacled creatures behind her suddenly let loose a roar of what was clearly some version of, “ _What the fuck is this shit; let me out_ ,” in its native language.

Darcy spun around just in time to see the other life forms backing away from it, except for one little green-skinned humanoid that Darcy was guessing to be a female of its kind, judging by the double row of boob-like things running down its front. She seemed to be trying to shush the blue creature, but when it ignored her and continued to bellow its angry noise toward the ceiling of the room, she too finally gave up and backed away— and just in time, for a second later there was a burst of light and a squelching sound and then all that was left of the blue creature was a pile of steaming, twitching goo. The smell of burnt hair filled the room.

Darcy instinctively shrieked and then she felt a cool hand clap over her mouth from behind, and it was the young soldier, silencing her as he simultaneously pulled her backward against his body, moving them together toward one of the walls of the cell.

He was incredibly strong, something far beyond human— she could feel it the second he tugged on her body— but he was the least bizarre of the life forms in the room, and he’d clearly spoken in English, so she allowed him to pull her aside, and she nodded her head fiercely behind his hand, as though to say, ‘ _Yes— I get it— I’ll be quiet_.’

He pulled his hand away slowly, and she took in a deep breath, turning her head slightly back toward him to whisper, “What the fuck is this place? Where are we?”

He smelled good— like leather and wintery spice and just a touch of man-sweat— and he tipped his head to answer her in a voice that sent shivers down her spine, as though the tones themselves were weighted with enchantment.

“It is not a place,” he said lowly, “so much as a construct. For observation. It only exists as long as they need it to.”

“Who are… ‘they’?” she asked, keeping her voice low like his, her eyes scanning the room for any other Earth-like beings, but he was the most normal of the bunch, even with his super-strength and unusual attire.

“I know not what they call themselves… nor how they appear, if they even have a corporeal form,” he said. “I know only what they do.”

“Which is what,” she said, looking uneasily at the still-smoking blob of yuck in the center of the room.

“As I said. They observe.”

“Observe what, exactly,” she asked, and just then, the little green-haired poly-boobed humanoid vanished into thin air, along with a tall, thin version of the blue tentacled species. “ _Shit_ ,” she breathed, her heart picking up as anxiety spread through her body. “What’s going on?”

“They’re making their selections,” he said. When he’d removed his hand from her mouth, he’d dropped it to his side, but now he wrapped his arm around her midsection, pulling her closer into his body, his hand flat against her abdomen. It was overly familiar for someone she’d just met, but under the circumstances, she welcomed the protective feeling of it, sheltered somewhat in the cradle of his formidable strength.

“How many times have you been here?” she whispered.

“This is my fourth… visit.”

As her eyes scanned the mass of creatures, other pairs were vanishing, every few seconds, and she was starting to freak out.

“I’m scared,” she admitted. “Where are they going? What’s gonna happen?”

“They're being taken to individual chambers,” he said. “Where they will be required to… demonstrate compatibility. Physical compatibility.”

She shifted in his arms so she could twist her head to look at him. “Are you fucking kidding me?” she hissed. “This is some kind of… pervy space live-action porno thing? What the fuck!” And then, “Oh my God; you mean I might have to get busy with one of those tentacle things?”

“Based on what I’ve been able to gather,” he said, “I think it’s less of a… voyeuristic perversion than some sort of… scientific endeavor.”

“Like we’re all part of some space-student’s biology report or something?”

“Something like that,” he said, as more of the creatures vanished.

“And if we refuse?”

He nodded to the blob in the center of the room. “It does not go well for those who… choose not to participate,” he said.

“Fuck,” she breathed, and then her brain said, _fuck it_ — more evidence that this was a dream, because she should really be freaking out more, considering— and she took a deep breath and said, “Can we influence the… what did you call it? The selection?”

“Perhaps,” he said. “I’ve observed some… trends.”

“Okay,” she said. “Would you mind if— I mean if we have to do this, we have to, right? So, um… would it be okay if… I mean… can I pick you?”

The room was half-empty now, and more and more creatures were vanishing, and she was thinking _please God don’t make me fuck one of the tentacle things; it’s too much weirdness for one day_ …

“You would willingly choose me?” he asked. He sounded surprised, which was odd— he was obviously a good-looking guy, seemed well-educated, and likely wealthy, judging from his attire, so where was the self-loathing coming from?

“Duh,” she said. “Out of everyone here? It’s sort of a no-brainer— I mean, you’re handsome for one, you know how to speak English— which is sorta weird; we’ll get to that later— and you’re basically human in appearance, so I’m assuming you have all the right parts.” She swiveled in his arms again. “You don’t have, like, three dicks or something, do you?”

He laughed then, his eyes crinkling and he said, “Just the one, I’m afraid.”

“Okay, then,” she said. “I mean, it’s just a quick fuck and then we can go home, right?” She knew she was being flip, but she was trying hard to make the most of the situation— on the off-chance that it was actually real, it made sense to go along with the guy who seemed to know the score, and if it was a dream, then hey— may as well get laid by a hot space-soldier; why not?

“Essentially, you’re correct,” he said. “At least that’s how it’s worked for me in the past.” He was smiling, amused by her words, even as his eyes continued to scan the room, waiting, a little tense…

“Okay,” she said again. “So how do we do this? Because I _really_ don’t want to end up with Squidward over there…” A rather large example of the blue tentacled species was waggling its appendages in the opposite corner, and Darcy was eyeing it uneasily.

“Kiss me,” said the soldier, suddenly.

“What?” She’d heard him, but the verbal comeback was instinctive.

“Kiss me,” he repeated. “Now.”

She turned fully around so that she was facing him, and stretched up on her tippy-toes, because goddamn, the man was tall, tilted her face up, parted her lips, trying to reach him…

He dipped his head down to make up the rest of the distance between them, and claimed her mouth, nothing timid or awkward or ‘ _first time for us_ ’ about it, exhaling against her after the initial heated, pressing wave, and then his hand came up to hold her jaw steady as he took it further, artfully adding his tongue in way that sent a shock to her core, and then his other hand came around her hip, smoothing over the round curve of her ass, traveled straight down the center line of her crack to cup her between her legs from behind, pressing his fingers against her center, and _holy fuck, he was good at this_ …

There was a jolt in her stomach, that feeling again of being sucked up by the cosmic vacuum, and suddenly they were alone in a new room, just a white open space, bare of any furniture or decoration, and he was stepping away from her quickly, turning so that his back was to her, and she could hear his breathing as he came down from the intensity of the kiss…

“Forgive me for being so familiar,” he said, sounding flustered. “I wanted to be sure that they…”

“It’s okay,” she said quickly, her lips a little shaky, and she felt like she could still feel his hand on her, the tingle still there between her legs where he’d touched her, and she said, “I mean, if we’re gonna do this…” She felt herself redden a bit, but then figured that—given the circumstances— being shy was kind of pointless. “I guess I’m glad you at least know how to please a girl…”

He turned his head back to look at her then, and she could see the little smirk he wore before he licked his lips, arching one of his brows, his face full of mischief, and it sent another jolt of heat straight to her center.

“Jesus,” she said, and squeezed her thighs together. “Are you— I mean, are you doing something… enhanced?”

He dropped the smug look then, and turned fully to face her. “No!” he said, sounding offended. “I would never— that is to say, not without permission…”

“So does that mean you _can_ do… things…”

He was starting to walk toward her, slowly, almost like a prowl, and she couldn’t deny it— even though she’d known this guy for all of fifteen minutes, and he could be anyone, any _thing_ , and this entire situation was completely fucked up and wrong… it was still, undeniably, turning her on— _he_ was turning her on— and she sank her teeth into her plump lower lip as she moved her eyes up and down his long, lean body, looking so hot in that uniform, whatever it was…

“That depends on what you mean by… _things_ ,” he said, as he neared her, and then she started to look around the spare, white room.

“Uh…” she said, backing up a little, “I mean, are we just supposed to do it on the floor or something?” And then, lowering her voice to a whisper, “Are they watching us right now?”

He’d continued to approach her, slowly, his eyes running over the shape of her body in a way that felt like he was touching her, and she’d continued to back up for some reason, even though she was totally on board with what he was doing, and her back hit the wall, and then he was crowding her with his body, so tall, and his scent washed over her again, like an icy pine cone, and she breathed it in as her hands reached around his body to grab onto the cape— he was actually wearing a _cape_ — and never in a million years would she have thought that would do it for her, but _guhhh_ —

“I believe,” he said, his breath warm near her ear where his head was tipping down, “they do not so much _watch_ in the conventional sense as they… _experience_ , perhaps through our thoughts. They can read our needs… what we require…” There was a strange push-pull to the temperature he was throwing off as he caged her in— at once both hot and cool, like his body couldn’t decide what it wanted to be…

There was a sudden feeling of a slight air-pressure change, and he said, “Ah,” and turned slightly, and when Darcy looked around his body, she could see that an enormous bed had appeared in the room. It was made up with rich sheets and coverlets draped in lavish tones of forest green, layered with sensuous ripples of deep-brown furs. The entire thing was framed in elaborately-carved wood that must have cost a fortune— it looked like something a prince would sleep in.

“Did you do that?” she whispered.

“No,” he said. “It is merely a… copy of my bed at home. They pulled it from my mind.”

 _Jeez, who is this guy_ , she thought, but instead she just said, “Will that work for me, too?” and then she focused on an image, and she almost squealed in delight when, a moment later, a bottle of red wine appeared in her hand.

“Clever girl,” he said, chuckling, and she couldn’t help the zing of pleasure she felt from his obvious approval. She grinned and bit her lip as he took the bottle from her but then she said, “They didn’t furnish a corkscrew, though,” and she focused her thoughts again, but nothing happened this time.

“No matter,” he said, as he removed the metallic overwrap from the neck of the bottle, and then she watched as a subtle golden glow surrounded the hand he held over the exposed neck, and the cork slowly rose out of the bottle on its own, until it was released with a _pop_.

“Holy shit,” she breathed. “How did you do that?” And then she narrowed her eyes. “Wait a sec. Hold up. So you _can_ do magic stuff? But you didn’t do the bed?”

Her shields went up instantly and she stepped back from where he stood with the now-open wine bottle. “How do I know you’re not the one behind all of this?” she asked. “I mean, this is _totally_ like some sci-fi show where the alien abductor puts himself into the form of the captive, and pretends to be a captive too, so he can ‘study’ the victims up close and personal…”

He sighed and his shoulders sagged a little. “I have no means to either prove or disprove it,” he said. “But I assure you, I am here against my will just as you are. And if you would choose to take a different course, I swear to you I will not touch you again.”

His face grew serious, and he held her eyes, making her believe his words. “But I implore you, do not choose lightly— I know you only have my word to go on, but based on my other experiences here, those who do not participate… they are not… returned. You’ve already seen what can happen…”

He was turning, frustrated, looking for somewhere to set the bottle down in the room, and then a little carved wooden table materialized at his side, as though he’d asked for it.

“How do you even know,” she said. “I mean, how did you figure out that— it’s not like there’s a sign on the wall or something, telling us to go at it…”

He set the wine bottle down on the little table. “My first… visit to this place was… eventful,” he said. “The first two beings I was paired with… those encounters… did not go well,” he said.

“I had my suspicions from the start— I’d heard tales of similar encounters of these… beings, and of their interest in the… practices of other life forms… but these stories… they were like your Midgardian tales of alien abduction: scoffed at, the alleged victims ridiculed.”

A pair of opaque, blood-red wine glasses had appeared on the table, and he filled each of them as he continued to speak.

“With my knowledge of these stories, and the way we were being selected… paired up… and then the appearance of a bed… well, I rather quickly deduced that the intentions of our captors were just as the stories had told. I did my best to convince my companions of the likely facts of our situation. The first two I was paired with refused outright, and they did not… end well. When I proposed a… _test_ of the theory to the third candidate, she agreed, and, well… shortly afterward, we were both returned to our proper places. That is, I _assume_ we were both returned… I cannot speak for the lady; I never saw her again. I myself was restored to the exact place and time I’d been plucked from, as though no time at all had passed.”

He picked up the glasses and approached Darcy slowly, holding one out to her in offering. “My successive experiences in this… place seem to have confirmed the theory.”

She accepted the glass from him, but didn’t drink, instead sniffing suspiciously at the liquid within. It smelled like an ordinary Cabernet, nothing raising any red flags, but her mind was questioning everything now.

“I urge you—” He stopped, sighed. “The wine has likely bought us some time— they may believe it a mating ritual— but I swear to you… based on my prior experiences here, our time to choose is limited, and the consequences, once that time runs out, are swift and brutal.”

He took a deep drink from his wine glass, licked a stray drop from his lips, and set the glass down on the table. “You seem a charming and intelligent creature; t’would be a waste for you to be struck down for naught…”

She was watching his every move, studying him for deception, though she had a feeling she would have no idea whether he was lying to her, about anything. “Why were you spared?” she asked anyway, wanting to hear his answer. “If the first two pairings were failures…”

“I can only assume that our captors could divine my intentions… that, unlike my companions, I was… willing…” He seemed to shudder then, and something in it felt genuine to her— not an act— and he said in a voice that was layered with vulnerability even as it strove to sound detached, “I have recently become aware that I am somewhat… unique in my… makeup. It could be that this gives me a greater value as a test subject…”

He was almost talking to himself at this point. “T’would explain, perhaps, why I keep getting pulled here… an attempt to understand…”

He broke off his rambling then, quite suddenly, and looked at her. “You should drink some,” he said. “Make it seem you are participating. I assure you, it’s perfectly safe; I could have easily discerned whether it was poisoned.”

She sighed and sniffed at the liquid again. Something about all of this seemed _off_ , but then, what about any of it made any fucking sense at all? Was it really worth the risk of getting zapped into a blob of goo? She tipped the glass to her lips and took a tiny, tentative sip of the wine. It tasted fine. Emboldened, she took a bigger drink, and then tipped it again, finishing the entire glass quickly. The light burn of the alcohol felt good going down.

She made her way over to the little table and held her empty glass out to him, clearly asking for a refill, and he did so, and then he refilled his own.

“Should you decide to… risk defiance of their directive,” he said, “I pledge to respect your decision, and do all I can to protect you with my wards.” He was looking down into his glass as he spoke, gently swirling the liquid within.

“But I will be honest— my spellwork was no match for these beings, whatever they may be. Having seen what befell my first companion, I attempted to shield the second who refused. Our captors cut through my ward like it was not even there, and my unfortunate cell-mate…” He looked up then, pressed his lips together as he caught her eyes and then said, “Well… you’ve seen what happens.”

She finished off the second glass of wine. She was starting to feel a pleasant warmth from the drink spread through her limbs, and could also feel her inhibitions fading just as steadily. “Fill me up,” she said, nodding to the bottle again, and she grinned in spite of herself, at the juvenile, if unintentional, double-entendre.

He obeyed, filling her glass again, and his green eyes were sparkling with mirth as he easily captured the double meaning. “Is that an invitation,” he said, and his voice was back to its earlier purr, low and seductive.

“Maybe,” she said, her own eyes dancing as she looked at him over the rim of her glass.

<<>>

[ _Upstate New York, Present Day_ ]

Darcy put her empty pint glass down on the card table. “So, then we, uh… we finished the bottle of wine, and then… yeah.” She couldn’t look at any of them as she said it.

“What,” said Steve, like the dope that he was.

Darcy and Bucky both looked over at him and rolled their eyes in tandem. “What, do you want a play-by-play or something?” said Darcy. “Jeez. Figure it out.” A second later she added, “Perv.”

“So you… you actually…” Steve didn’t seem to know what to say. He looked horrified, and it was pissing her off.

“What?” she said, not hiding her anger now. “What was I supposed to do? _Die_? I didn’t even know who he was! And honestly? Even if I had? It’s not like I was gonna let myself get zapped into a pile of burnt hair for the sake of my virtue. Jeez.”

“But…” Steve was still trying to process it. “He didn’t… he didn’t _force_ himself on you, or…”

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” said Loki, rolling his eyes. He was leaning against the wall in the entryway, and he’d had quite enough. “This is taking far too long. Miss Lewis was perfectly willing; that’s the whole point. If you do not believe, see for yourself.”

And there was a glimmer of golden light around his face as he closed his eyes, concentrating, and then he _pushed_ the memory of it— the ending that Darcy had discreetly left off— into the three humans, and they all saw it, felt it, simultaneously, as though they were taking in a movie, but all at once— a sensory assault of images, sounds, feelings… all there in their minds, as real as if they’d experienced it themselves—

Saw how she and Loki had finished the bottle of wine and fallen, laughing, onto the rich drape of fabrics on the bed… how they’d kicked off their boots, how he’d ripped the knit hat off her head and plunged his hands into her thick hair as he kissed her, deeply, languorously, as they rolled around on the silky sheets… how they’d rid themselves of their remaining clothing quickly… grinning, eager…

How Darcy had shrieked playfully as Loki had stalked his way up the bed to her, his cock proudly pointing toward its destination as he tugged on it a few times…

How he’d readied her with his mouth, moaning in appreciation as she’d spread her legs wide…

How he’d thrust into her with joyful abandon that turned into a edgier kind of lust— needy, almost rough— and how she’d enjoyed it, pulling on his hair as she urged him on…

And they all heard the sounds of it— the panting, the gasping, the lewd slap of their flesh against each other, and they could almost smell the reek of the sex, the sticky hot sweat of them as they burned together, and they could see it, the glisten of the fuck-sweat upon Loki’s smoothly muscled chest as he pulled back a moment, grinning down at her smugly, licking his lips as Darcy moaned, writhing for him, begging…

Heard her say it: “ _God, don’t stop…. keep going… fuck me_ …”

And he happily obliged, as she used her heels to lever desperately against his ass, pulling him deeper, harder, and she was yelling it now as he drove into her relentlessly, brutal, until finally the memory faded out on the screams of their explosive, deafening end.


	4. Chapter 4

The clamor of confused protest began as soon as Loki released them from the memory, and it was as varied as the people who’d been forced to see it.

Steve was pacing in circles, his hands over his eyes, shouting out, “God! _God!_ What did I just see?!?”

Darcy was whimpering a steady, “No….. no…. no…,” her face wobbling, the tears forming…

Bucky simply said one word— “ _Jesus_ ,” his voice quiet, shaky, and then he fell into silence. He had both his elbows on the table, his forehead resting against his fingertips as they pushed up into his hairline, his eyes staring, unseeing, at the words of the Scrabble game that were still laid out on the board.

Loki looked around at the three different forms of shock playing out, huffed a little laugh and then, shrugging his shoulders, assumed a sheepish look and said, “Oops?”

“Fuck you, Loki!” Darcy spat out. “God!” And then she did crumble, the tears falling, and she kept her quavering lips sealed tight, trying to hold it in, making her breath hitch and snuffle through her nose as her chest shook from the effort to stifle it.

The sound of her struggle seemed to break Bucky out of the stunned trance he was in, and he turned his head to look at her, his own eyes unreadable at first. When he saw the despair on Darcy’s pretty face, he reached his right hand over to cover hers, where it lay trembling on the table, flexing in anger.

He curled his fingers over her little fist, coaxing out the tension there so that he could wrap her hand in his own abiding, familiar warmth. She responded instinctively to his touch, letting him take her hand, and once their fingers were laced together, he spoke to her through it, with a gentle but determined squeeze that said everything.

She dropped her gaze to look at the hand when she felt it, and then moved her eyes up to meet his… his beautiful blue eyes that were looking at her without a trace of judgement— only compassion and empathy— and her lips finally parted to let out some of the emotion in a half-stifled gasp, still pushing down the tears, not wanting to cry, and she was trying to speak to him— to say it with her eyes— how sick, how utterly broken she felt, that he’d had to see that.

He held her eyes steady and just squeezed her little hand again as he shook his head, reading her mind, and he said, quietly, “You ain’t got nothin’ to apologize to me for.”

She tried to say it, but no sound came out, just her lips forming the words— “ _I love you_ —” and he repeated it back, the same way, silent, as they hung onto each other with their eyes.

Steve was still pacing, punctuating his agitated circles with more verbal protests— forceful, like he was jabbing at a punching bag, only the _one-two_ thumps were words instead of fists, like, “Why?” and “I can’t,” and “ _For God’s sake_ ,” until Bucky finally twisted his body to look at him, open irritation on his face.

“Jesus, Steve, shut the fuck up— you’re makin’ it worse.”

None of them were looking at Loki, almost as if they were afraid to acknowledge him— like it would set off a chain reaction of explosions that none of them would survive.

Loki, meanwhile, had been studying Bucky’s other hand, where it rested on the table, unmoving. The latest prosthesis was life-like, but it’d been glitching a little, the holographic coating on the hand flickering at times.

Loki tilted his head, curious, and said, “Is that a cybernetic hand?” He sounded impressed— not so much by the technology as by the notion that they’d managed to do some kind of song-and-dance on him, and he’d only now caught on.

Bucky pulled the hand back, curling the fingers of it around the edge of the table, as he finally allowed himself to look at Loki. “Darcy made it,” he said. His eyes and his voice were cold in a way that would have made an ordinary person take a step back, but Loki brushed all of it aside easily, turning his attention to Darcy.

“Indeed?” he said. “I’m impressed. I should say, I’m not surprised, though; it was quite clear to me that you had a keen mind, suggestive of many possible talents beyond the bedchamber, and—”

Bucky slammed his fist down on the table then, and all the little tiles jumped high into the air from the impact, raining back down in a scrambled mess.

Loki ignored him, continuing to speak only to Darcy. “Is he fully automated?” He had a wicked grin on his face. “Darling, your tastes are _far_ more intriguing than I’d suspected… I was already applauding your shameless desire for not one but _two_ strong men to see to your needs, but designing one to your own _specifications_ …”

“God, _ENOUGH!_ ” yelled Darcy, as she leapt up from the chair, shaking as she fumed at him. “Number one, he’s a _man_. Not a— whatever you think he is. He has an artificial limb. His name is Bu— James. James Barnes, and he’s a man— a better man than _you’ll_ ever be. Number two, there is _nothing_ kinky going on between the three of us.” She waved her arm out to draw a loose circle in the air connecting Bucky, Steve and herself. “Steve is my _friend_. And number three? _FUCK YOU_.”

Loki was holding his hands up again, palms toward her defensively as she faced him down, fearless. He was still smiling slightly as he spoke, like it was all just a bit of fun. “You misunderstand,” he said. “You’ll get no judgement from _me_ for your erotic appetites. My goodness, but you Midgardians are quick to shame. Your Captain here has practically turned flagellant from the mere _mention_ of what I’m sure would be a marvelous copulation.”

Steve had retreated to a dark corner of the room and was slowly banging his forehead rhythmically against the wall.

Loki was still talking, matter-of-factly: “Why, some of my most treasured memories recall complicated positions that required at _least_ four or five—”

“Could we _please_ ,” said Bucky, slamming his hand on the table again, this time palm-down, “stick to the matter at hand? I’d like to know why you needed to wipe her. Now that you’ve—” he closed his eyes for a moment— “ _shown_ us how… _willing_ everyone was… what was the point of clouding her memory of it? I have a hard time imagining someone with your ego bein’ too keen on the idea…”

Steve spoke up from his dark corner, getting out his first complete sentence since Loki had forced them to witness the memory. “How do we even know you haven’t tampered with her in some way? That what she’s rememberin’… what you— showed us… that it’s even accurate?”

“I think it’s real,” said Darcy softly, as she sat back down. She swiped tiredly at the stray tears on her cheeks and then turned to Bucky, picking up his flesh-and-blood hand again as she spoke to him. “You know how you told me your memories from… from when they had you— how you don’t have the whole story sometimes, but you know what feels right when you see it? Or when someone else tells you what happened?”

Bucky nodded, and she continued. “It felt like that. Like the memory was always there— like I knew it, but I just couldn’t… get to it.” She sighed and squeezed his hand. “I know it’s true.”

“I believe you,” he said, even as Steve, behind them, threw his arms up in the air in exasperation.

“I saw that,” said Darcy. “And Steve? I love you, and I forgive you, but you can _fuck right_ off with your disbelief and your judgment and your shame-talk…”

“Hear, hear,” said Loki.

“Shut up,” said Darcy and Bucky, reflexively, in unison.

Steve sighed and rubbed a hand through his hair as he turned back around to face her. “M’sorry, Darcy. I— didn’t mean to put that all on you. M’just angry, is all. I’m mad as hell that you had to go through any of that, and that you’re bein’ forced to open it up again, because this— _monster_ messed up his own life and can’t seem to stop hurtin’ other people… innocent people.”

He looked hard at Loki. “Ain’t never gonna forget what you did to the people of New York. You should be in a prison. Not— not galavanting around the universe, makin’ eyes at pretty girls…”

Loki’s face turned into something tight and dangerous then, seething, and he leaned forward as he hissed at Steve, jabbing the air with his finger. “You know _nothing_ of my life— the sacrifices I’ve made. What I’ve lived through, what I’ve been forced to—”

“ _Guys!_ ” said Darcy. “Enough with the dick-fencing.” She made a scoffing sound then. “Loki’s down a weapon, anyway.”

Bucky huffed out a laugh at her gibe, and he scooted his chair closer to hers so that he could put his arm around her. She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. She was starting to get tired from all of the drama, and the big glass of wine, and she wished more than anything that she could just crawl into bed and snuggle with Bucky and forget that any of this was real. To go back to how it was.

“So how did that all— end, anyway?” said Steve, and then immediately put up a hand as though to say, _stop_. “Do _not_ show me,” he said, to Loki, before redirecting his words to Darcy. “I just wanna know… how did you return? Did you ever find out he was… who he is?” he asked, gesturing to Loki. “Or was it all gone by the time you got back?”

“Well,” said Darcy, “What happened, was…”

And as she began to tell her version of it, Loki was reliving it through his eyes, in his own mind, filling in all the details she was leaving out or could not have known…

<<>>

[ _Somewhere in Space, 2011_ ]

They were lying on their backs, side-by-side, trying to catch their breath, and then Darcy started to laugh and Loki smiled in spite of himself, and even though he knew it was temporary— that this would all soon disappear as he was sucked away from this place and back to the hell that his life had become, to face the truth of what he’d learned… and gods, there was still _Thor_ to deal with— even with all of this… for just a moment, Loki felt that maybe things could somehow be all right.

The girl’s laughter had died down, but she was still grinning, and he turned his head on the bed to take a better look at her— she was comely, with big blue eyes and full, plump lips— red now, roughed up from their activities— though she had a funny gap in her teeth that would have branded her as undesirable on Asgard. Loki found he did not mind it.

“What amuses you,” he said, and he leaned onto his side slightly, and he traced the circle of her bare nipple with his finger and then blew on it gently, his breath making her shiver as it cooled the lingering sweat that yet slicked her body.

“I was just thinking,” she said, and she giggled as he did it again, squirming playfully. “That was some of the best sex I’ve ever had with someone who I don’t even know his name…”

Loki blinked for a second and then he stalled for some reason, something telling him that anonymity would be the better choice here, and said, “That sentence is atrocious.”

“Whatever,” said the girl, and as she turned onto her side to look at him, he watched her face fall in horror— an expression he was familiar with in this situation, had been bracing himself for, always an inevitability— but the words that followed were not the typical ‘ _this was a mistake_ ’ or ‘ _if you breathe one word of this to anyone_ ’ or— his favorite— ‘ _so when can I meet Thor_ …’

“Oh my God,” she said, instead, and she reached down, rested her palm against her bare stomach, so soft and round and… gods, she had a lovely body…

“You totally came inside me, didn’t you,” she said. “I mean, I felt it. I know you did. Oh, _shit_.” He could see her genuine distress, and he moved quickly to subdue it, making a soothing sound as he rested his hand on hers, where it still lay on her belly.

“Do not concern yourself. It is a simple enough spell.” And he lifted his hand so that it hovered a few inches above her abdomen, whispered the required incantation, and then it was done.

“What was that?” she asked. “Did you just give me, like, space contraception?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” he said, and smiled. “The effect will hold for some time— long enough to ensure that my spend does not… catch.”

“God, that’s so amazing,” she said. “You need to bring that shit to Earth.” She showed him that big gappy smile again, and said, “Speaking of Earth, that’s where I’m from, if you hadn’t already guessed. I’m Darcy. Darcy Lewis. Nice to meet you.”

She was so innocent, her smile upon him so easy, lacking the sneers or suspicion or the casual derision that he’d become accustomed to on Asgard, even from those who sought to use his influence or even his bed as a pathway up the royal echelon, and before he could stop it, he found himself blurting out the truth, like a besotted fool:

“I’m Loki,” he said. “Of Asgard.” He’d said the phrase so many times in his life, typically with a tone of aggression— the words a challenge, a throwdown… sometimes an open threat. Now, here, they were simply the truth. At least, part of it. The part he was still comfortable with.

Her face took on a funny expression, a cross between humor and disbelief, and she said, “Wait, _what?_ As in… Norse-myth Asgard? As in, your father is Odin and you use this magic sparkly rainbow bridge thingie to travel through space— which is _so_ gay, by the way; I approve— and your brother is Thor? _That_ Loki?”

He’d drawn back a little, schooling his features, ready to pretend it didn’t sting when she said whatever she was going to say next. Inevitably, something about a reputation for lies and tricks, and a lack of honor in using magic on the battlefield, and he should’ve just gone with a false name, and he could feel the pre-emptive anger already beginning to rise within like bile…

But the girl’s face took on an expression not of ridicule or disgust, but rather one of fascination. “Oh my God,” she said. “This is _so weird_. We were _just_ talking about all of this. It can’t be a coincidence. I mean, assuming this isn’t just a long, vivid, crazy fucked-up dream, which is still the more rational explanation…”

“What do you mean,” he said, interrupting her ramble. “Who was talking? Who was speaking of Asgard? Why?”

“Me and Jane,” she said. “We were arguing with Eric about it. How Thor could really be _the_ Thor, because magic and stuff would’ve seemed like… the ancient people would’ve thought you were gods, and—”

She broke off to look him up and down appreciatively. “I gotta say, though— if you’re really him? You are _way_ hotter than Eric’s book made you out to be… like, you should seriously be offended… it also said some pretty crazy shit about you, like that you fucked a horse, and—”

“You know my—” He stopped himself just in time, choosing, for the first time, not to use the word _brother_ to describe the man he’d been raised with. The man with whom he now knew he shared no blood. The man he needed to destroy, before he ruined everything. “You know of Thor?” he asked instead.

“Yeah; he’s there right now,” said Darcy. “With Jane. He was talking to those four weirdos— oh my God, are they from Asgard too? Holy shit; it’s _all real_ …”

She still wasn’t recoiling in fear or disgust, so she must not know of his treachery, his lies to Thor… his mind was racing, trying to chase down the correct path…

She was excited now. “Hey, maybe you can help him! I mean, he seemed all fucked up, like he thought your guys’ dad was dead, and then that lady was all like, “no Thor— babe, your dad’s still alive,” and he looked so confused, and that was when I went to take a bathroom break, and then the next thing I knew, I was here.”

She looked up at his face and her grin fell and she said, “Hey, are you okay? What’s going on up there on Asgard, anyway? Did you know about the thing with your dad? God, I’m sorry…”

He broke out of his thoughts to look at her— her face was full of concern, and it almost crushed what little of his heart still had faith enough to harbor tenderness. That anyone would look upon him with such solicitude… it was an ache he needed to cauterize…

“Can you help him?” Her face was so full of hope…

“I—”

“God, Jane is never gonna believe any of this,” she said. “I mean, what are the chances…”

“Not so much chance,” he mumbled, stalling again to think, still trying to decide his course, knowing also that time was short— now that they’d completed the act, they could be returned to their points of origin at any moment. “It’s likely that your connection to… Thor… is what linked you to the broad selection of beings that included me. Were you harboring any… erotic imagery at the time of your abduction?”

“Uh… I guess so? That Robin Hood guy was…”

Loki made a scoffing sound and looked away. “Of course.”

She grinned again. “Oh, you know him, huh.” Her voice was gently teasing. “What, you jealous?”

He’d flopped back, and she followed, draping her naked body across his chest, as he made a derisive noise. “I’ve nothing to envy in that artless cunt-hound.”

Darcy erupted into laughter at his words and he couldn’t help the twinge of happiness he felt, to have that effect on a woman… it’d been an age since he’d been able to charm a lady into such open and authentic mirth…

“You’re fun,” she was saying. “Are we gonna get to hang out again ever? “Cause, uh… I’d totally be up for a repeat of, um…”

“Really,” he said then, unable to help himself, and he leaned up again and then swept her body beneath him to reverse their positions— she now flat on her back as he hovered over her, and he would have taken her again, this time with more art and care, if he’d known they’d had the time, the luxury… but he had to act swiftly now, knew what he needed to do.

“Alas,” he said, meaning it. “As much as I would be delighted to continue this… acquaintanceship… there are things happening that I must attend to, and it would be best if we… kept this strictly to ourselves…”

“Ah, yeah. Family shit, huh? It sounds like you guys have some stuff to figure out. Are you gonna come down to Earth too? God, I don’t know if I can pretend I don’t know you— I’ll probably blush the second I lay eyes on you again, and Jane will totally know something’s up. I mean, I can do my best, though. What happens on Auedix 5 _stays_ on Auedix 5, or whatever.”

He couldn’t help smiling at her. “Auedix 5?”

“I dunno,” she said. “I just pulled a space-name out of my ass. It sounds like one of those sex-vacay planets that Commander Riker would go to, you know? On Star Trek?”

“That was Risa,” he said, with all seriousness.

She grinned big again, and smacked at his chest, making him mirror her smile. “Oh my god, you’re all strong and sexy and can do magic _and_ you’re a nerd? This is too good… How do you even know about Star Trek?”

“What you Midgardians lack in many other areas, you do make up in your love of storytelling… your theater, your films, your so-called cable-television… and you enjoy books more than any other beings I’ve encountered, which alone earns my high regard. Your picture-books for grownups are a unique delight I’ve not seen the like of in any of the other realms…”

“You mean… comic books? Graphic novels?”

“Indeed… I have spent many a contented rainy afternoon turning the pages of one of your illustrated adventure stories…”

She blinked and said, “You sure you can’t come visit? I, uh… I know how to be… discreet…” He searched her face for jest— finding none, he could feel that ache again…

He looked at her fondly, a sad smile now on his face. “Darling, you’re as easy to read as a child’s book of letters, I’m afraid. Perhaps… maybe when this business with my family is sorted…”

Even as he said it, he knew it was folly… there was no ‘sorting’ the vile truth that’d been revealed to him when he’d lifted the Casket of Ancient Winters… the way his flesh had turned an icy blue, confirming what he’d seen on Jotunheim… it sickened him, thinking on it— the truth that lay beneath the falsehood of this pale flesh…

He sighed then, unable to keep the sadness off his face. “It’s… complicated.”

“So what are we gonna do?” she asked. “Because, you know, as much as I hate to admit it, you’re probably right about me— I can’t lie to save my own ass. I don’t know what’s going on with your family, but if you need me to keep it quiet that we’ve met, you’re gonna have to seriously coach me or something.”

“I can do better than that,” he said.

“Yeah?” she asked. The way she looked at him— her bald trust— it twisted in his chest like a knife. He could break her body in two in the blink of an eye, if he so chose. It’d be far easier, and a reliable a way to silence her. It unnerved him that the thought had even skittered through his head. What was he becoming? Perhaps with the knowledge of his true parentage, his behavior would substantiate the claims of all the tales he’d been told in childhood… the barbarity, the cold cruelty of the Frost Giants… he could snap her neck and be done with it. The idea of it made him sick.

“If you would permit me,” he said. “I have a working I can perform upon you… it would cloud your memory of this incident completely. It would still reside in your head, but be shielded from you so that you would not be troubled with the burden of concealing it yourself, consciously.”

“Really? Wow, that’s… that’s amazing.”

His heart stuttered. Once again— no scorn, no derision… only admiration— wonder, even— at his proposal to use magic rather than muscle to solve their dilemma…

“But then I’d forget all the good stuff, too, right?”

“I’m afraid so,” he said.

“Darn,” she said, and at that one silly word, a tiny little part of his gradually-chilling heart— just one little speck of warmth— set itself aside, locked itself away in a hidden refuge, wanting to remain free, even if its secrecy made it a prisoner within him.

“I guess it’s for the best, though,” she said. “And then I wouldn’t have to think of the bad stuff, either. Like that blue guy who got zapped. I’m starting to feel really bad about that…”

And she was, wasn’t she. He could see it in her face. She actually felt empathy for that boorish fool of a Traz’ok who got himself carbonized, even though she knew nothing of him personally. She was so innocent… knew nothing of the true brutality of the universe…

“So how do you do it?” she was asking. “Will it hurt?”

“No,” he said, and he was almost blown over with a wave of affection for her as she stared up at him, still so trusting, and he pledged to himself to be as true to her as possible, beyond the ugly lies of omission he was already scattering across the landscape of their bond. He was startled by the ferocity he felt to do _right_ by this girl…

“You may feel a slight… warmth in your head. As you would from a touch too much wine. Once we are parted, the memory of our time together will fade in a matter of seconds.”

He was surprised to see a bit of moisture gathering in her eyes. It couldn’t be… could it? Tears? For… him?

“I’m feeling kind of sad about it now,” she said. “Ugh, don’t mind me. I’m a total sap. It’s just… I mean, I like you. I don’t want to forget the whole thing.”

He felt sour inside, knowing that the only reason she ‘ _liked_ ’ him, that she’d allowed him to touch her, to enjoy it even, was because she didn’t have the full picture— of what he was inside, the truth of the monster within… of what he’d done to Thor— the ugly, painful lies he’d wrought— and worst of all, what he yet planned to do…

“Then it is better that you forget,” he said, and then he did it, let his slender fingers hover over her forehead, and there was gentle golden glow, so much like Frigga’s, who’d personally taught him the bulk of his spells, and who, like this lovely creature beneath him, had had only admiration in her eyes for his natural talents…

Her lips parted in a little gasp as the spell found its home within her mind, and she said, “I can feel it… like you said— it’s warm.” She smiled then, completely unafraid, and it took his breath away.

“I must admit,” he said, leaning in, but before he could get the words out— saving him from what would have been some ridiculously saccharine confession, the threads of some blooming sentiment— there was a shift in the air, and she simply vanished, the bed now empty and cold beside him.

“Typical,” he said, and then he too was sucked away.

<<>>

Back in New Mexico, Darcy Lewis felt an odd tug in her abdomen as she stood from the toilet and pulled her pants up. _God, I hope I don’t get my period today_ , she thought. Because that would totally ruin her plans to seduce Robin Hood out there. Although, oddly, her desire to have cheap, meaningless and all-kinds-of-awesome sex, so strong just a few moments before, seemed to have suddenly waned. She felt oddly sated. Huh. Weird.

Meanwhile, on Asgard, Loki rematerialized in the Vault, right where he’d left off. He slammed down Gungnir, Odin’s powerful staff, and watched as the Destroyer emerged from behind the wall.

“Be sure my brother does not return,” he said, the words cold. “Destroy everything.” And then, conjuring an image of Darcy Lewis, he added, “Spare only the girl.”

<<>>

[ _Upstate New York, Present Day_ ]

“You lied to me,” said Darcy, putting it all together as she relived the events through her own version of the story. “You knew what you were planning to do, but you let me believe that— you didn’t tell me that you were the reason Thor thought his dad was dead… that he could never return home.” Her face got ugly then, twisted with anger. “And then you sent that _thing_ down? Even though you _knew_ I was there? Right after we—”

“It had instructions not to harm you,” said Loki quickly. “You would have been spared.”

“And you think that makes it _okay_?!? What about my _friends_? What about all the innocent people who could have died?”

“That was not my concern,” said Loki, and there it was: the chill that she and Steve expected from him, knew was there, based on his past deeds. “I only knew that I could not have your death on my conscience.”

“Oh, but the death of my friends would’ve been okay? The _despair_ I would have felt? The fucking _trauma_ I went through even though Thor came through and saved us all? That’s all okay?”

She’d leapt out of her chair when she’d started her tirade, and now she paced, shaking. “And what you did to Clint? And Eric? For your bullshit takeover attempt in New York? They’ll never be the same!” 

She sat back down in her chair, hard, and muttered, “You’re a fucking psychopath. God, I’m so grossed out right now…” Bucky was still seated there, next to her, and she turned her body back into the shelter of his strong arms, the safety of his scent.

“So what now?” asked Steve. He was holding himself in a firm stance, arms folded across his chest, a symbol of strength and defiance, even as they all knew they were basically powerless to whatever whims Loki ultimately chose to pursue. Darcy’s willingness to testify was their only card to play, and there was no telling what Loki would do once his need of her was satisfied.

The only sound for a minute was the crackling of the fireplace. Finally Loki took a breath and said, “Will you still… assist me?”

“I shook on it, didn’t I?” Darcy had lifted her face away from where it’d been buried in Bucky’s chest, but she wouldn’t look at Loki, instead directing her words to the warm air of the cabin. “Unlike _some_ people, I do have a sense of honor. Some fucking _character_.”

She did turn to look at him then, and said, “Speaking of which, how’s my story gonna help you, anyway? It’s not like what we did says anything about your character… it was fuck or get zapped, so… s’not like I had a ton of options, and based on what you’re saying about these people you’re dealing with, I don’t think they wanna hear about what a good lay you were…”

“It’s not the… act I need tell of,” he said, “but rather the way I comported myself, particularly beforehand. That I did not… take advantage.”

Steve had winced at Darcy’s words— the phrase ‘ _good lay_ ’ not belonging in the same box as _Loki_ — and dropped his hands to his hips. His forehead was pinched now as he addressed the Asgardian. “Can’t you ask someone else to… vouch for you?” he said. “You must have… others who…”

“I do, and I have. They have all refused.”

“What, all of them?” asked Bucky.

Loki sighed. “I only asked those with whom I felt I stood any chance of…” He shut his eyes, pursed his lips, and then blew out a tired breath. “Miss Lewis is the two hundred and forty-seventh life form I’ve petitioned for help in this matter. As you may surmise, I did not take lightly my decision to restore her memory. It was, as you would say, a last resort.”

Darcy barked out a short laugh as she stared straight ahead. “Two hundred and forty-six ‘ _fuck you_ ’s, and then me.”

“Essentially, yes.”

“I think the universe is trying to tell you something,” she said.

“I think it’s telling me that you are a woman of unparalleled honor and integrity, putting to shame the legion of former lovers who were only too happy to align themselves with me when it suited their cause, only to abandon me in my own hour of need,” he said softly.

Nobody knew how to respond to that— he sounded utterly guileless, and yet such flowery platitudes, and the sincerity with which they were delivered, were likely standard fare on the manipulative menu from which he drew, as easy for him as breathing.

Finally, Bucky broke the silence. “How do we know you’ll keep your end of the bargain, if she does this for you?”

“You don’t,” said Loki. “You shall have to… trust me.” Even Loki sounded somewhat embarrassed to say the words, so ludicrous a notion they were.

Darcy let out a long sigh, her eyes closed, and it went on for a good ten seconds, and then she finally opened up her eyes and looked him in the face and said, “I can’t believe I’m saying this, knowing what I know, but I’m gonna go ahead and trust you to uphold your end of the deal.”

Loki stood up a little straighter at her words, and clasped his hands together in front of his crotch. He remained silent, letting her speak, knowing better than to say a single word at this point.

“I know there was still some good in you, back then,” she continued. “I _know_ it. Maybe there’s still something there. I don’t know.”

He was barely breathing now.

“Obviously I’m not gonna _know_ , once you’ve wiped me again, but… I dunno… maybe my _soul_ or something is gonna know. Is gonna hold you to it. Is gonna haunt you, and kick your ass if you fuck this up. Are you getting me?”

He actually looked a bit unnerved by her words, and he just nodded his head curtly in acknowledgement.

“Okay, then,” she said. “So how do we do this? Do I have to go with you somewhere, or I can just, like, sign an affidavit or something?”

“We must appear, together, in front of the Ghurlal tribunal, and make a formal petition.”

“And what about them?” asked Darcy, inclining her head to Bucky and Steve.

“Yes, well… I’m afraid Tweedledum and Tweedledee shall have to accompany us—”

“Hey!” said Steve.

Bucky just said, totally straight-faced, “I call _dee_.”

“… to ensure no communication with Thor nor anyone else may occur,” finished Loki.

“Tweedle—” Darcy started to say. “How do you even _know_ about Alice in Wonderland?”

“To be precise, that would be Through the Looking-Glass," he said, "but both works are among your realm’s more delightful contributions— they’re practically guidebooks on how to infuriate roomfuls of diverse personalities without ever sacrificing propriety or manners.”

“Could we just get on with this?” asked Steve. “None of us are interested in your opinions.”

“Certainly,” said Loki, and he moved in close to the card table, put his hand over the center of it, and they all watched as a golden glow began to form around it. “Place your hands in the light,” he said, and when none of them moved to do so, he added, “Please.”

“You sure about this?” asked Steve as he stepped closer to the table, and he looked from Darcy to Bucky.

“Don’t see what choice we got,” said Bucky, and he looked at Darcy for her confirmation. She nodded to him once, and then put her little hand into the light, followed by Bucky’s, and finally Steve’s, and a moment later, the four of them vanished in a flash of light, the little wooden Scrabble tiles shuddering slightly in their wake.


	5. Chapter 5

The journey was neither quick nor easy. Rather than the instant, effortless teleportation the humans seemed to have expected, Loki zig-zagged them across the realms and their neighboring systems in dozens of little jumps that gave them glimpses of strange and beautiful star-scapes for mere seconds— just long enough to take a breath, sinuses stinging— before they were yanked back into his golden light for another nauseating leap.

It was tiring for all of them, and finally, in a damp and deeply fragrant wood draped in green vines and scattered with moss-covered boulders, Loki stopped, gasping, and leaned against a stout grey tree-trunk, trying to catch his breath. The air was heavy with a thick moisture, and the sounds of alien insects scraped and buzzed around them, unseen.

“We will— pause here and— regather our energies for the final leg,” he said, trying to hide how affected he was by the demands of safely pulling so many souls through space. He was glad to see that none of the humans were looking at him, busy in their own recoveries. “It will be a longer jump to our final destination,” he warned, “and likely more stressful to your… weaker compositions.”

“ _More_ stressful,” said Steve, panting. He was bent over, his palms pressed into the knees of his khakis, taking in big gulps of the sticky air. “Haven’t felt this done-in since Sokovia.”

“Put—” Darcy started to say, and then stopped, needing to breathe deeply. Unlike Loki, she’d shamelessly capitulated to the obvious strain the unorthodox travel had put on her body, and was lying flat on her back in a bed of deep-green moss.

With her long, wavy hair spread out beneath her, and her full, red lips, she was ethereally beautiful in the woodland environment, and could have been mistaken for a nymph, if not for her decidedly un-sylphic attire— she was wearing dark-wash stretch jeans, beat-up red-white-and-blue Converse, and a black novelty sweatshirt that had ‘ _Wake up and Smell the Disappointment_ ’ emblazoned across her ample chest in bold yellow script.

“Put yourself in _my_ shoes, mister… mister super-soldier,” she finally managed to say. “I’m just a stupid muh— mortal.”

“You okay?” asked Bucky. He bent down on one knee next to her, blowing his bangs out his face so he could see her. He’d started growing his hair out again— he’d kept it neatly trimmed during his four years of government service, and for the additional two years with pay he’d voluntarily tacked on, but now that’d he’d retired from all of that, it’d been an easy slide back into a softer, more casual look, closer to his appearance when they’d first met. It wasn’t quite long enough to tie back yet, and it was driving him crazy.

Darcy nodded in answer to his question, reaching up with one tired hand to affectionately rub at the dark scruff on his jaw, ending with a press of her thumb into the cleft of his chin, as she always did.

“Just gotta lie here for a minute,” she said. “I’ll be all right.”

Bucky dipped his chin down an inch to kiss her thumb, and then, encircling her little wrist with his big fingers, gently pulled her hand away from his face to rest it carefully back onto her chest where she lay. He smoothed a lock of hair away from her face, let his hand rest against her cheek for a moment, and then pushed up from his crouch to look around. “What is this place?” he said.

Loki watched as the dark-haired man— Darcy’s man— scanned their surroundings with the scrutiny of a trained scout. His guard never seemed to waver, and he was clearly using all of his senses to analyze the environment. He picked his way across the forest floor casually, but Loki could see that the man was a tiger: the calm but rippling strength of the exterior belying some hidden ferocity— an electric, unknown turbulence within.

Darcy had insisted that he was not a cyborg, and his own observations corroborated that assertion, but there was something about him… something _more than_ , and Loki disliked the disadvantage he felt in not knowing what that _something_ was… he’d done well to cover how close he’d actually come to being impaled through the neck by the man’s blade— it’d been startling, and not a little unsettling.

It was a fascinating dichotomy: the man reeked of a cold mastery of the killing arts— so plain to see, like a tattoo across the psyche, to one who shared the aptitude— _that_ , married to the genuine tenderness he’d just shown the girl… so careful with his touch… almost reverent…

It’d stirred a memory… Frigga— his mother in all but blood— showing him a butterfly when he was a boy, allowing it to land on her fingertip, so careful with her touch, lest she damage the delicate dust that composed the vibrant colors of its wings…

He’d taken it for granted, then, that gentleness— coming from one who’d in all ways embodied his soft place to fall, who’d mended his wounds, both bloody and existential… when Thor and his ruffian boyhood friends left him shoved down in the dust before rushing off on some childhood adventure, for which his own slightness of frame and worry over details were scorned as liabilities, she’d been there, open-armed, steady smile on her face, patching both his scraped knees and his battered ego, drying his tears with an attentiveness that made his heart ache to remember…

He knew now that one with power such as she’d possessed could have crushed the insect with the mere hint of a stray thought— that her focused care in handling it, allowing the velvety black legs to grip the soft pad of her fingertip, to creep where it might, had been a choice… a humility and wonder in the face of something perhaps even more powerful, an exaltation of the beauties of this Universe, the possibilities for good, and the pleasure to be had in communing with it…

She’d hoped, attempted, to imbue those things in _him_. He could only feel a penetrating shame that, in her final days, he had to have been the deepest of disappointments…

Now, with her gone— no way to make amends— _ever_ … what even was the point…

Darcy’s man: the _assassin_ — Loki would have wagered his life on it— was still waiting for an answer.

“We are on Vanaheim,” he said simply, and then ventured to casually voice his observation: “You are not as affected as the others.”

“I am,” said Bucky, turning slowly to see all sides of the glade, his eyes weighing everything. “Just used to it, I guess. S’little like comin’ out of cryo. Same feelin’ of being gutted… disoriented.” He shook his head a little, almost seemed to be speaking to himself. “Almost started talkin’ in Russian…”

Loki had no idea what the man was on about, but Darcy interrupted before he could delve further.

“Can we go right to bed when we get there?” she mumbled. “Or, like, make camp here and continue on in the morning?”

“That would be ill-advised,” he said. “There are beasts about for which even your enhanced companions’ anatomy is no match.” It was a thinly-veiled attempt to draw out more details of said enhancements, but Darcy either didn’t pick up on it, or didn’t care, choosing instead to sigh dramatically, pouting like a youngling with a fraction of her years.

“You know,” she said. “For someone so smart, you’re pretty dumb.” She hadn’t turned her head to address him directly, but it was clear to Loki that her words were meant for him. “You shoulda come for us in the morning, instead of at the end of the day when we’re all wiped out.”

Though it was obvious she was jesting, it still rankled to be characterized as an idiot, and part of him longed to snap back with a lacerating remark that would have sliced her effortlessly to the bone: such word-games were child’s-play for him, and satisfied his need for superiority, at least in one arena. Instead he let his mouth drop open in an icy half-smile, acknowledging the bait, but declining to bite. He spoke with practiced nonchalance.

“Tales such as ours are better told at night,” he said, “when mortal ears are more open to the exotic and unfamiliar.”

Darcy found that she couldn’t argue with that reasoning and said as much. “Yeah, you’re probably right,” she said, and punctuated the comment with a huge, indelicate yawn.

Her remark was so offhand, blasé, and indifferent, that he found himself seething inside. He couldn’t even tell whether she was deliberately provoking him. She was either far better at this than he’d given her credit, or she was some inscrutably frustrating mixture of genius and simpleton. He found it baffling, maddening, and painfully attractive.

If not for the other two men, and his inconvenient lack of equipment, he would have been tempted to haul her up and take her against one of the large trees— make her scream his name this time, with the same passion her more general cries of ecstasy had awarded him all those years ago… 

Gods, she’d been lovely then, but _now_ — time had done her good…

For a moment he was tempted by the vision of stranding her companions there on Vanaheim… to draw out her fire, forced to go on with him alone, dependent on his protection… he almost laughed to himself, imagining her fury— could picture the confrontation, her little finger jabbing him in the chest, fearless… if he’d been intact, he would have been hard, just thinking about it…

She’d shut her eyes, sucking in another deep breath. “It smells like rosemary,” she said, and he could hear her stomach growl. “Makes me want flatbread,” she mumbled. “With olives. And tzatziki.”

“What are we gonna do about food?” asked Steve. He’d finally caught his breath and was sweating in the humidity of the wood; they were all overdressed, layered for the New York winter— not the thick heat of this alien world. He stripped off his plaid flannel shirt and was tying it around the waist of his white undershirt as he turned, scanning their surroundings with a cautious, tactical eye, much as Bucky was doing. “Is there anything edible here?”

“Do not venture deeper into the wood,” said Loki, preemptively striking any of their thoughts to do so. “As I said… there are beasts within, which you would do well to avoid…” He held one hand out, and a burlap sack materialized in a subdued glow of light, his fingers tightening to grasp the neck of it as it solidified. He gestured to Steve with it, indicating that the other man should take it.

Steve approached warily and took the bag, loosening the tie at the top to look inside. “Bread?” he said, and then, “These look like apples.”

“Because they _are_ apples,” said Loki. He rolled his eyes when Steve continued to look skeptical. “What possible advantage could I gain from poisoning any of you _before_ she testifies?” he said, and then regretted his phrasing, which implied that he’d have no qualms about doing so afterward…

“I assure you,” he said, and he made an effort to sound… _trustworthy_ would be a stretch… _credible_ perhaps? “There is nothing magical nor unusual about the provisions within,” he continued. “I simply had them stored in a… well, we would refer to it as a pocket.”

“Like a pocket dimension?” asked Darcy.

“Something like that,” said Loki, wondering how she knew of such things.

“That’s so cool,” said Darcy. “I wish I could do that. That’d totally come in handy for, like, emergency tampons.”

She was sitting up a little now, but leaning back on her elbows, her ankles crossed, and she looked perfectly _luscious_ there on the carpet of moss, and Loki had a vision of himself kneeling before her, magicking her coarse, uncultured garments away with a snap of his fingers… uncrossing her ankles so that he could settle his body between her milky thighs…

He was snapped out of the reverie when he was almost struck in the head by one of the apples, which Steve was distributing like baseballs. Bucky grabbed one from the air without even looking, and then tore off a hunk of the rustic brown bread Steve passed his way before tossing the rest of the heavy _batard_ to Darcy. There was a wedge of cream-colored cheese wrapped in a waxy cloth, and Steve handed it over to Bucky, who produced another blade from God-knows-where to carve slices out of it.

At the bottom of the sack was a large, purple stainless-steel water bottle with a twist-off cap, which seemed incongruous with the decidedly medieval feel of the rest of it, and Steve raised his eyebrows at it before unscrewing the cap to sniff at the liquid within. Loki merely shrugged his shoulders and explained, “Your people make excellent travel accessories.”

Loki made himself comfortable on a large rock that was covered in brilliant turquoise and pink lichens, and bit into his apple. After he’d chewed and swallowed, he spoke before taking another bite. “I should tell you that once we get there, you must guard carefully against referring to me by my true name. Things could go quite badly for all of us… and not merely at the hands of the locals.” He turned the apple and bit into a fresh spot on it.

“Wait, what?” asked Darcy. “You didn’t tell us we’d be in danger… I mean, other than the obvious danger from _you_ …”

“They don’t know who you are?” asked Steve. He’d taken a big swig of the water, and used his sleeve to wipe his mouth before handing the bottle over to Bucky.

“Certainly not,” said Loki. “My reputation is far-reaching, and there are those who… seek for any sign of my continued… existence. It is imperative that I maintain this ruse of having been slain on Svartalfheim.”

“How the heck did you fake that, anyway?” asked Darcy. “Jane said you got a spear through the chest.”

The water bottle had made it back around to Loki, who took a deep drink, emptying the remains, before screwing the top back on. He gestured to Steve to return the burlap bag, and he placed the empty bottle back inside.

“Your questions are pointless,” he said, speaking to the three of them equally, though the assassin had shown little interest in him— it was oddly vexing, considering what he’d forced the man to see. He should have been seething, challenging him, marking his territory… 

His eyes flicked over to Darcy, who was still leaning back on the bed of moss. “You shan’t remember any of my answers,” he said, “once we’ve concluded our… time together. She’s made it clear that she would have all memory of this encounter shadowed.”

“And you’ve made it just as clear that walking away from this with our memories intact was never an option,” said Steve. “Even if she hadn’t made it a condition. Unless you’re just plannin’ on killin’ us once you’ve got what you want.” He said it blandly, seeming to mock the fact that none of them feared him, nor did they cower at the truth that they were entirely at his mercy.

“God, I’m an idiot,” said Darcy. “Of course he’d have to wipe us either way, so we can’t tell Thor. I should’ve asked for something better. Like, stay the fuck off our planet.” She was talking about him as though he weren’t even there, and it was infuriating.

“Not that it matters,” she said. “Any of it. He’s gonna do what he’s gonna do. Right?” She finally looked up at him— Loki was staring at her, his green eyes drilling into her face, and after a few seconds she dropped her gaze, unnerved— at last— by the intensity in his expression.

“We have a bargain,” he said. “I shan’t be the one to break it. We shall see if the same holds true for you.” He pushed up from his boulder-seat with an air of formality and brushed off his cape, freeing it from stray bits of dust and leaf matter. “We should go,” he said. “Before Miss Lewis becomes too fatigued to continue.”

Bucky squatted back down beside her, his back to Loki, and held out his hand. “You good to go?” he said quietly.

“I think so,” she said. “What about you?” She’d lowered her voice as well, though she suspected Loki could pick up every word they said, if he chose to listen. “You gonna be okay? I heard what you said about it being like cryo…”

“Think so,” he said. “Guess we’ll find out.”

“I’m not worried,” she said. She grabbed his hand then, and let him pull her up as he stood, aware that Loki was watching them as he waited.

Once they were all standing and ready to go, Loki re-tightened the neck on the burlap bag, and then vanished it back into his dimensional pocket with a small but elegant wave of his hand that was accompanied by a tiny burst of light. He raised his eyebrows when he noticed Steve shaking his head at the spell-work.

“Something troubles you, Captain?”

Steve made a scoffing sound. “Ain’t much about this situation that doesn’t trouble me.” He rubbed at his chin. “Was just thinkin’ it’s a shame you decided to bat for the other team,” he said. “Someone with your powers… fighting alongside Thor… it must have been something to see.”

Loki just stared at him for a moment, his jaw tensing. “I was not _batting_ for— it was no _decision_ of—” He broke off. “You could never understand,” he spat.

“Try me,” said Steve, crossing his arms over his chest, which drew sounds of tired protest from Bucky and Darcy, while Loki simply sneered before launching into an acidic reply.

“Perhaps I am simply a coward. Would it please you to hear me say so?”

“Nothin’ about you pleases me,” said Steve. “You know, you’re not the only one here who’s been used. Forced to do things you didn’t—”

“Steve, don’t,” said Bucky, interrupting. “He’s just tryin’ to rile you up.” He addressed himself to Loki. “We ready to go, or what?”

“If the Captain is done haranguing me, yes.”

“Then what are we waitin’ for?” Bucky put his hand on Darcy’s back and she looked up at him, nodding to him that she was ready. He gave Steve a significant look, telling him to keep his trap shut, and Steve nodded back, pressing his lips together as he stepped forward.

They huddled up in a circle, placing their hands together into the yellow glow, and after a moment of concentration, Loki closed his eyes, exhaled as he inclined his head, and after a brief but brilliant burst of light, they vanished once again, leaving behind a little swirl of viridian leaves that shook and then settled back into the relative silence of the glade.

<<>>

The final jump was definitely a step up from the others in intensity— they materialized on a wide, grey, brick-laid path, flanked on both sides by towering, leafless, grey-trunked trees as far as the eye could see. Centered on the path was an elaborate stone fountain, like something you’d see in an Italian piazza, and the three men leaned over next to it, hands on their knees, bent over and gasping, while Darcy stumbled completely to the ground, trying not to retch. She was fighting a dizziness reminiscent of the worst drunken spins she’d ever suffered, after an ill-fated night trying to chase away some demons with the better part of a stolen bottle of Tony’s 8-year-aged añejo.

As Steve struggled to get a hold of himself, he instinctively reached for the fountain to splash his face with water, when Loki’s arm darted out to stop him just in time, pushing his hand out of the way of the liquid flowing within.

Steve jerked his arm away from Loki’s touch, but then stilled, staring in wonder at the thick, orange-red substance cascading seemingly in slow-motion over the multiple tiers of the fountain like molten amber. Tiny sparks of plasma flared like mini lightning bolts, bridging the several inches between the liquid and his shaking, frozen fingers, and where the streams of conductive gas touched his skin, little balls of orange light broke off and drifted into the air like embers off a campfire.

Steve opened and shut his mouth once without speaking, and then again, and Loki smirked as he watched it finally hit the other man that he was no longer on his own familiar homeworld. 

Steve looked reflexively at the sky then, taking in its dusty pink hue and the two small suns that hung there like celestial Christmas ornaments— one a brilliant primary red and the other a visibly-swirling mix of golden gases— just like the binary star-system in that Star Wars movie Sam had made him watch too many times to count. “Is it safe?” he asked, unable to tear his eyes away from the twin suns. “I mean—”

“You are quite safe,” said Loki, brushing the sleeves of his long jacket as though to scrub off the dust of travel. “There is an artificial barrier. Had we materialized beyond the safety of the enclosure… well. That would be quite a different matter. The suns are rather small, compared to your system, but the atmosphere is very thin and the temperature outside is approximately forty-two kelvins.”

When Steve looked at him blankly, Loki rolled his eyes and said, “You would simultaneously freeze to death, and burn to a crisp from the ultraviolet radiation, almost instantly.”

“Terrific,” said Steve, but he was grinning like a kid. He swallowed and smiled stupidly again like some kind of star-struck dope, and, finally able to speak again, muttered, “I mean, I don’t even…” He didn’t try to fight the look of pure awe on his face as he looked up at the sky again, turning slowly, as he gazed upward in stupefaction, just like the tourists in Times Square.

With a breath of a laugh he said, “Bucky… you seein’ this?”

There was no response, and after a moment he finally looked down to check on his friend, who he only now realized was shaking and struggling to breathe, his body slumped against the base of the fountain.

“Buck?”

“ _Prekatítye_ ”, said Bucky, quietly, and Loki’s brow wrinkled as his language center registered the switch in tongues, even as the new words automatically translated for him…

“What’s that?” Steve crouched down and moved to put his hand on the other man’s shoulder, and then, thinking better of it, pulled back before touching him, and tried to engage him verbally again. “Bucky— you hear me? You all right?”

“ _Pozhál’sta… obyeshháyu… ni búdu soprotivlyát’sya_ …”

“Shit,” said Steve, under his breath, and he scrambled over to Darcy, who was still on the ground nearby, trying not to puke. He put his hand on her shoulder and shook it a little. “Darcy— you okay?” When she didn’t answer, he said, “You gotta get up… Bucky, he— I think we might have a code red…”

It’d been six years since they’d lived through Bucky being triggered into Winter Soldier mode, and they’d had no reason to fear it happening again, but they all knew the possibility was there— perhaps always would be, no matter how unlikely— and they had protocols in place for this situation. Unfortunately, those protocols didn’t cover the context of being physically and mentally pulled apart after being teleported to an alien planet by an untrustworthy demigod who was supposed to be dead.

Darcy rolled over, tried to sit up, swallowed down the acid in her throat and tried to get her bearings. “What? Bucky—”

“Careful,” warned Steve, keeping his body tense, ready to put himself between the two of them— use his body to protect her, if need be. “He, uh… he’s speakin’ in Russian.”

“Probably— probably just confused,” she said, still trying to catch her breath, and then she pitched her voice higher, tried to reach out to him with her words even as she struggled to get on her knees. “Bucky,” she said. “Bucky, you hear me? It’s Darcy.”

To her alarm, her voice seemed to have a instantly negative effect: he flinched and tried to pull himself further away— maybe would have pushed up and fled, had his legs been usable— but he seemed barely able to move, his entire body shaking as though struggling to get warm, his teeth chattering between stuttered Russian words and phrases…

“ _Prekatítye… dáitye mnyé… prósta dáitye mnyé vozvrashhát’sya_ …”

Darcy shook her head and looked at Steve. “This isn’t the Soldier. This is— he’s somewhere else. He’s freaking out.”

She edged closer to him, slowly, but stopped when she realized he was retreating from her as though cornered… as if she could be any kind of threat to him…

“What’s the matter with him,” said Loki, his voice clipped. “Get him up. They’ll be coming…”

“Shut up,” hissed Darcy. “He can’t help it.”

“So reboot the program, or whatever it is you need do, but do it _quickly_ ,” he said, keeping his voice low.

“Are you kidding me right now, with that cyborg bullshit?” she snapped back, angry. “He’s having a flashback or something. He was a prisoner for— for seventy years.” She was reaching out her hand, slowly.

“Darcy, don’t,” said Steve. “Don’t touch him yet.”

“I know what I’m doing,” she said.

“Whatever you’re doing, hurry it up,” said Loki. Then he frowned and said, “Seventy years? But you said he’s not… He _is_ human, is he not? How can he—”

“They kept him frozen for most of it,” she explained, inching a little closer to Bucky as she spoke. He’d rolled his body away from her so that he wouldn’t have to look at her. She didn’t want to ambush him, but she knew if she could just touch him— let him feel her hand…

“They only took him out for training or, um…maintenance,” she said. “Or to kill.” She looked over to Steve, who was kneeling nearby, ready to help, but he shook his head, not having any other ideas of what to do, not while they were stuck on an alien planet, with no sure way of getting home.

Her voice was usually calming— it’d never antagonized him like this before, not since… _ugh don’t think about it_. She’d done a lot of work to reclaim her peace of mind since they’d fallen out a Quinjet six years ago, but the memories were still painful to revisit… and anyway, that had been different— on the jet, as the Soldier, he’d been angered by her attempts to break through to him. This wasn’t anger. This was more like… supplication. He couldn’t even meet her eyes.

Her hand was hovering over his body, not touching yet, but ready. “Back in the woods, where we stopped,” she said to Steve. “Did you hear him? He said that the jumps… coming out of them… that it felt like coming out of cryo. He must think he’s back there— that he’s about to get prepped for a job or something…”

Loki was watching the three of them, wary, a look of disquiet on his face as Bucky continued to plead with them in Russian. His crack about rebooting the man had yielded a few more answers, and he was starting to fill in the blanks…

“Bucky?” ventured Darcy, carefully, trying again. “Bucky Barnes. I know you. You’re safe. You’re—” She’d been about to tell him where they were, in an attempt to ground him. Usually it was, ‘ _You’re in New York; you’re home_ ’, or sometimes it was a hotel room, some city they were passing through on the way to a new job, followed by specifics— sensory details that he could verify— but this time she realized she had no idea where they were… and even if she did, it wouldn’t be helpful— they were all out of their depth here. Instead she just repeated, “You’re safe,” and then, “You’re with me. It’s _Darcy_.”

When he made no reply, she finally let her hand settle ever so softly onto his back, but he flinched away violently, and would have struck her in his uncoordinated scramble to get away, if Steve hadn’t yanked her back in time, pulling her into his chest as they scooted backward together on the brick.

“ _Prekatí_ ,” Bucky said again, and now a note of anger was creeping into his voice, which was not a good thing. “ _Znáyu, shto tebyá zdyés nyet. Ti ni nastoyáshhaya… Vsyo éta… ninastoyáshheye_ …”

“He believes it an illusion,” said Loki. “All in his mind.”

“Shit,” she breathed. She still didn’t realize Loki could understand the words— assumed that, like her, he was guessing— but didn’t disagree with his assessment. She looked at Steve, worried. “This is a bad one.”

“We don’t have time for this,” said Loki, brusquely. He tilted his head, indicating something behind them, and when Steve and Darcy turned to look, they could just make out a group of tall, vaguely humanoid forms far in the distance, who seemed to be coming their way.

“Who are they?” said Steve, tensing, keeping his voice low.

“City guards,” said Loki. “Come to collect us.” Then he said, “What was his name again? Barnes?” And then he crouched down next to Bucky and began to speak rapidly, urgently, in well-accented Russian.

“How the fuck do you know Russian?” said Darcy, surprised, and a bit possessive, angry that she couldn’t speak directly to Bucky herself. She’d attempted to learn a bit of the language over the years— at least enough to help in such a situation— but found she had almost no skill for foreign language, and could barely manage more than the most basic pleasantries, her accent so terrible that she’d all but given up. Until now, it hadn’t been an issue— he’d never done this before, dissociated this severely.

“What are you saying to him?” she said. “Tell him I’m here; that he’s safe…”

“I’ll do no such thing,” he said crisply, and then he grasped Bucky’s flesh-and-blood arm firmly, easily holding the man steady when he tried to wrench free, letting him feel the raw strength in his grip.

He needed to control the situation, and quickly— with the skill for destruction he felt sure the man possessed, combined with the fear and confusion now evident in his countenance, Loki feared he could unleash a bloodbath upon the approaching gendarmes, obliterating any chance of recovering his manhood…

He launched into another stream of Russian, his voice intense, commanding.

To their surprise, Bucky seemed to suddenly sag as Loki’s words got through to him, exhaling in relief as he nodded, saying ‘yes’ repeatedly (Darcy understood that much), apparently agreeing to whatever Loki had said.

He allowed himself to be hauled to his feet, and then Loki slung Bucky’s arm over his shoulder so that he could support the man completely— he was like a soldier who’d been wounded on the battlefield, allowing a comrade to drag him away.

As soon as he had a firm hold on him, Loki turned his head and whispered something into Bucky’s ear— some kind of spell, apparently, as the other man’s eyes fluttered and then closed, his body going limp. Loki continued to support him without complaint, ignoring Darcy’s distressed demands to know what he’d said, what he’d done.

“Do not be alarmed,” he said, and she thought he was talking about what he’d done to Bucky, but then Steve was pushing her back as a golden shimmer enveloped the sorcerer’s body, obscuring him from their view. For a second she panicked, thinking he was going to teleport away, taking Bucky with him, but then the shimmering waves dissipated, leaving behind what looked like an entirely new person standing before them.

The face was similar— his features were still somewhat recognizable if you knew what to look for, though his skin was less pale and slightly freckled, his eyes now more blue than green. His hair was honey-blonde— almost the color of Steve’s— gently styled in tousled curls that ended just past his ears.

His clothing had changed as well— he was now in simple brown homespun, more befitting a trader or a craftsman, and wore a leather satchel diagonally across his chest. His overall look was softer, less threatening, lacking all the ostentation of his usual style.

“Holy shit,” she breathed, unable to hide how impressed she was— and he would have preened a little, but there was no time for such luxuries.

“They know me here as ‘Tolkir’,” he said, and looked behind them again, to gauge how close the guards were.

“What did you do to Bucky?” she asked, her fleeting awe of his skills already brushed aside, as she returned to her true concerns. “What did you say? Did you put a spell on him?” She moved forward, clearly wanting to touch the man, make sure he was all right, but Loki put his hand out, fending her off.

“Stay back,” he said. “You will only trouble him anew. I’ve calmed him for now, and I… well, I suggested that he relax until we can get somewhere more secure.”

“What’d you say?” she repeated, but kept her distance as he’d told her to, stepping back toward Steve, who put his hands protectively on her shoulders as he stood behind her.

“I told him he could go back to sleep, back into oblivion, if he kept his mouth shut and allowed me to take him back to his cell.”

“Why the hell would you tell him that?” said Steve.

“Because that’s all I ever wanted, when I was being tortured,” said Loki. “Hush now,” he said. “They approach. We mustn’t have any outbursts or violence of any kind. Remember: _Tolkir_.”

“How do you know Russian?” asked Darcy, even as she repositioned herself at Steve’s side, and then reached to grab his hand. They were lining themselves up in a row, turned now to face the oncoming guards, still in the distance.

“Do not hold his hand,” said Loki. His face was forward, keeping his eyes on the guards, but he’d caught the movement. “It will be… misinterpreted.” He laughed then, quietly. “You find it surprising that I know Russian, but not that I know English?” He tsked. “Americans…”

After a moment he said, “The truth is that on most occasions, I’m speaking neither English nor any other Midgardian language, though your heart receives it as such. In this case, however, it was exactly as you heard. I needed Mr. Barnes to believe his illusion— to hear the Russian. Am I correct to have surmised that was the language of his tormentors?”

“Some of them,” said Darcy, uneasily. “But then why—”

“I don’t have time to explain it now,” said Loki. “When I speak to the guards, you shall hear it as English, while they in turn shall hear their own tongue. I can extend this gift to you, for as long as we are in their company.”

“Uh, okay,” said Darcy, as she felt the now-familiar wave of Loki’s magic pulse through her like a warm breath that sank through her skin. She squeezed Steve’s hand one more time and then dropped it, mindful of Loki’s earlier warning, though she itched to hang onto him, craving the solidity of his support.

Steve, feeling her tension, gave her a reassuring nod. He was untying the flannel shirt from his waist, quickly slipped it back on and buttoned it up, and then squared his stance beside her, close enough to convey what Bucky would want him to: that she was under his protection.

The guards were very close now— there were three of them, humanoid, and seemed to be male, by Earth standards. They were slightly taller than standard humans— somewhat bigger in general, in fact— like people who’d been enlarged in a full-body copy machine at a ten-percent increase. Their skin was golden-brown and the sclera of their eyes was pinkish, and they had large black pupils covering the area where a human’s iris would be.

The three of them had identically close-cropped silver hair, wore indistinguishable military-style uniforms of red and brown leather-like materials, and carried vicious-looking spears which they held upright, parallel to their bodies, on the left. Darcy would have been hard-pressed to tell any of them apart.

Loki barely had time to hiss, “Let me handle this,” before the guards were near enough to engage them. They halted their march about ten yards away, and fanned themselves out in a tidy rank formation, each of them plunking down his spear to the left side of his body as though commanded.

“You there!” said the one in the middle, addressing himself to Loki. “What business have you here? Identify yourselves!”

Loki stepped forward, still effortlessly shouldering Bucky’s limp weight. “Good afternoon,” he said. “My name is Tolkir.” He spoke clearly and confidently, and Darcy realized what a gift he’d afforded her and Steve, that they could follow what was being said, without having to trust him to translate. It seemed uncharacteristically generous, and she wondered what he had to gain from it. Maybe he’d just wanted to avoid a steady, pestering stream of, ‘ _What did he say?_ ’ which she definitely would have been serving up otherwise.

“I have an appointment with the tribunal,” he was saying. “A matter to settle with Am’a Eechor. I have procured my witness.” He nodded to Darcy. “The honored lady you see here— and her, eh… personal guard.”

Steve and Darcy followed Loki’s cue, nodding agreeably without speaking when the guards’ eyes moved over them, assessing. Darcy noticed that they completely lacked any hint of eyelashes or eyebrows, which gave their faces a severity that looked almost painful. Something was clearly troubling them, and again the guard in the middle spoke up. “They are differently gendered.”

“Ah,” said Loki, “On their world it is… acceptable for, eh… such… professional arrangements, with permission. There is an… understanding of trust between the guard and his charge. It is… inviolable.”

The guard considered it, measuring, and finally nodded, apparently satisfied with the explanation. “And this one?” he asked, gesturing to Bucky.

“He too is a member of the lady’s personal guard,” said Loki, “but the travel between realms has… injured him. We would be most grateful if a place of rest could be made available to us while we await our audience with the tribunal.”

When the guard made no sign to answer immediately, Loki added, “We shall, of course, pay for our accommodations.” He reached into his leather satchel, moving slowly, telegraphing his actions as he removed a handful of small, silvery-metallic rods from within. They were the size of pretzel sticks, and had horizontal lines etched into them in evenly-spaced intervals.

The guard’s eyes flicked to the rods, and then back to Steve and then Bucky. “They are not armed,” he said, and there was a question in it.

“Ah,” said Loki. “They do not require weapons to protect the lady. They are trained to defend her with their bodies alone.”

Darcy immediately thought of the collection of knives Bucky probably had stashed on his person, and hoped there wasn’t going to be some kind of bodily search to verify that assertion…

She held her breath as the guard seemed to consider for a moment, studying all of them, his forehead wrinkling as he took in the words on her sweatshirt, and she wondered if Loki’s spell extended to written language…

Finally he nodded, held his wrist up to his ear, as though listening to a communication device, though his arm was bare of any visible gadget or ornamentation. After a moment he nodded. “It is acceptable,” he said, his words having the weight of a proclamation. “You will follow me.”

“You have our gratitude,” said Loki smoothly, and as the guards turned on their heels, Loki nodded to Steve and Darcy, a look of determination on his face, and they all set off briskly down the path, working hard to keep up with the aliens’ larger strides.

The brick path led them through the eerily leafless forest, everything a washed-out grey, like a color photograph that’d been digitally converted to black-and-white. After five minutes of their silent speed-walking, the path made a sharp curve, and there, around the corner in the distance, a short walk away, was some sort of settlement, hidden behind grey stone walls— their apparent destination.

Darcy kept looking worriedly over to Bucky as they neared the walls. “Is he gonna be okay?” she whispered to Loki. “How long is he gonna be like that?”

“He is quite well,” said Loki. “I simply quieted the confusion in his mind… suggested he sleep until his thoughts are more focused. I assure you, it is completely harmless. My mother used to soothe me so after a nightmare. When he awakens he should be more lucid.”

“It’s too bad he’s missin’ all of this,” said Steve, looking up again at the twin suns, still visible in the sky above the gloomy grey branches of the bare trees. “S’like steppin’ right into one of those pulps he used to read… Amazing Stories…”

“Hopefully he’ll come out of it, once we’re somewhere quiet,” she said. “He hasn’t had a bad one in a while. Even that really nasty one, in Toronto— it didn’t take too long; he just needed to sleep it off. But it wasn’t like this… I mean, he still knew who I was…”

She sighed and instinctively reached out for Steve’s hand again, stopping herself just in time. She wondered what kind of ‘misinterpretation’ the hand-holding would cause… maybe they’d have to get engaged or some bullshit…

They’d arrived at the towering stone walls, pausing in front of a silvery-metallic latticework portcullis. They stood a safe distance back from the guards, one of whom raised his wrist to his ear again, and moved his lips, though they couldn’t hear what he said. After a moment the gate raised up vertically with a noisy _clackety-clack_ , and two of the guards moved to flank the opening while the leader turned to their little group and indicated that they should proceed inside.

Loki nodded to the guard and walked through, still shouldering Bucky, and Darcy and Steve followed behind. Once through, they could hear the rattle of the gate lowering again, and Darcy turned, watching it lock into place. She couldn’t help the feeling of unease that bubbled up, of being trapped inside: though there’d been no reason to feel any more secure on the outside of the walls— on an alien planet, with no shelter, no knowledge of the environment or the culture— there was nevertheless some kind of primal need for the option of physical escape.

The guard who seemed to be in charge began to lead the way again, while the other two held back, bringing up the rear, giving them a suggestion of being boxed in. Darcy couldn’t tell if the intention was protective, or if it was to discourage a getaway.

There were masses of other aliens within, walking in groups or huddling around what seemed to be market stalls, and they all looked much like the guards: tall, with golden-brown skin, close-cropped silver hair, and the same freaky pink eyes with no iris.

Darcy was looking at them closely, trying to determine which, if any of them, were female, but it was hard to tell.

“Where are the women?” she stage-whispered to Loki. “I mean, are any of these…” Some of the aliens at the market stalls were looking at their group curiously, but most ignored them entirely as they filed through, hemmed in by the guards on both ends.

Loki cleared his throat and spoke quietly, keeping his head angled down so that his voice would not carry. “Women are… not generally permitted to, eh… _wander_ … without some kind of chaperone,” he said.

“Oh great,” she whispered back, sardonically. “It’s _that_ kind of culture. Am I gonna get burned at the stake for wearing pants?”

“Hush,” he said, as the lead guard turned his head slightly back at them.

They followed the guards through the remainder of the marketplace and then the path began to bisect narrower byways that were lined with stone buildings, made of the same grey material as the wall— uniform, gloomy, and drab. The lead guard turned abruptly down one of these side-streets and stopped in front of a stone slab set into the brick wall— judging by the width of the slab, it functioned as some kind of door or gateway. He placed his hand on the wall beside it, and the slab simply vanished.

“Whoa!” said Darcy, jumping back a bit, unable to help her surprise, and Steve stepped around her, peering inside to see a tidy little courtyard, split by a grey-bricked path leading to a grey-bricked cottage. The grey brick was becoming oppressive. Maybe it was the only building material they manufactured in abundance on this planet…

“The lady may retain her personal guard,” said the guard, “as is her custom… but they must remain outside her chambers.”

“Understood,” said Loki agreeably.

“But wait,” said Darcy, before she could think it over, to consider whether, as a woman in this culture, it was even proper for her to speak up. “Is there room for everyone in there? What about Bucky? He’s in no condition to… I mean, he can’t…” Finally she just gave up and said, “He needs me.”

The guard looked sharply at her, and she added, flailing for appropriate words, “He, uh… he needs my help to heal from the… injury.”

The guard looked surprised. “He is also your mate?”

“Yes,” said Darcy, at the same time that Loki said, “No.”

The guard narrowed his eyes suspiciously, his hand tightening around the shaft of his spear. “It cannot be both. Which is it.”

“Are you wed?” asked Loki, turning to face her, surprised. He was kicking himself for not considering this sooner… for making assumptions… for not adequately preparing them for the constraints of the culture.

“Uh, no… I mean, not yet,” said Darcy.

The guard sucked in his breath, clearly offended by the implications.

“On their world,” said Loki, trying for diplomacy, “it is… customary for those promised to each other to spend, eh… ample time in each other’s company prior to the ceremony, in order to better acquaint themselves…”

“But surely there are measures in place to ensure no impropriety…” The guard was sputtering— he almost seemed embarrassed. “Surely they—”

“But of course,” Loki broke in, his voice like syrup, before Darcy could say anything stupid. “I myself would be _honored_ to offer myself as chaperone…”

The guard narrowed his eyes again, clearly not taken in by Loki’s ingratiating demeanor. He did the wrist thing again— he was either listening to someone, or maybe doing some kind of invisible information download. After a moment he pressed his lips together in obvious disapproval and said, “Your current status makes you an inappropriate choice for chaperone.”

Darcy had to choke down the laugh that erupted from her throat, turning it into an awkward cough— she really needed to find out what the heck Loki had done to offend these uptight jerk-wads…

“What about Steve?” she said, and the guard angled his head down to look at them. “He’s an excellent, uh… chaperone. I mean, he’s already here anyway, as part of my, um… guard, so…” She added, at the last second, “I mean, he’s basically our chaperone back home, too.” If Bucky’d been conscious, he would have snickered at that. They had a running joke about Steve’s legendary cock-blocking powers…

The guard stared at her for a moment, as though processing her words, and then considered Steve, who was doing his best to look both sturdy and innocent— not a difficult task for him— and finally the alien nodded his head and said, “It is acceptable. For limited periods. But once her betrothed is… recovered, you must both withdraw to an appropriate distance.”

“I understand,” said Steve, nodding, using his best _I-am-trustworthy-and-it-shall-be-done_ voice.

The guard nodded back to him curtly, in a sort of soldier-to-soldier manner that apparently translated perfectly across unknown galaxies, and politely indicated the way in with his outstretched hand, and then pivoted to tell Loki, “Your accommodations are further down. If you would accompany me.”

“Of course,” said Loki. He nodded to Steve and carefully transferred Bucky to the other man, who adjusted his stance, but then easily shouldered and hefted the dead weight of his unconscious friend.

“You may reconvene at the appointed time,” said the guard, and then turned to address Darcy directly. “A detachment shall be sent to escort you and your guard. Be sure that you are ready.”

“Uh, okay,” said Darcy, nodding her head. “Thanks. Uh, when exactly is that gonna be, do you know?”

He did the wrist thing again, and then replied, “It is to be on the morrow, when the suns are at their meridian.”

The guard did a little bow to her, and then turned and indicated to Loki that they should continue on. Loki turned his head to give her a significant look with raised eyebrows as they left. She had no idea how to interpret it, nor did she really care, far more concerned with getting Bucky safely indoors.

Steve nodded toward the courtyard, telling her to go ahead, as he adjusted Bucky’s weight against him. As soon as all three of them were in, the stone slab reappeared out of nowhere, sealing the exit, making her jump again in surprise.

“How does it even know?” she said. “Are we being watched?”

“Don’t ask me,” said Steve, glancing to the sky. “Come on; let’s get him inside.”

She made her way cautiously up the narrow brick path, which was flanked by two small fountains— miniature versions of the massive one, complete with the slow-moving amber liquid. Just past the fountains was a double set of grey-wood doors set into a grey stone archway, everything feeling slightly too tall and too wide, sized to accommodate the slightly-larger stature of the aliens.

Each of the wooden doors had its own sturdy vertical pull, forged of a rough black metal, and as she pushed against one, the heavy door opened inward with a creak. She bent forward tentatively, trying to peer into the unlit chamber within, and then pushed it all the way open, moving to hold it so that Steve could pass through, dragging Bucky along beside him. Once they were safely inside, she turned to shut it behind them with a resounding _thud_. There was a huge deadbolt on the inside, again in the hand-forged black metal, and she slid it home, shutting them in.

“Thank fucking God,” she said, as she turned around, sagging against the door in relief. “This place better have a bathroom— I’ve never had to pee so bad in my life.”


	6. Chapter 6

“This is it?” she said, almost wailing, as she looked around the empty, square space. It was the size of a modest living-room, with no additional doors or passageways. The floor was cool, laid in the ubiquitous grey stone, and bare, lacking any kind of furniture other than a grey, wooden multi-shelved sideboard pushed against one of the other walls. There was a large, rustic stone-lined hearth at the other end of the room. 

“Where the fuck are we supposed to pee?” she said, whirling around. 

“I don’t know, but I’m in pretty dire need myself,” said Steve, as he followed, shuffling his way into the chilly room, Bucky’s boots dragging along the floor as Steve continued to shoulder his friend’s limp weight. He hauled his heavy body nearer to the unlit fireplace, while Darcy investigated the items on the sideboard. 

The top shelf, at what would be waist-height for the taller-statured aliens, was laid with bowls and platters of strange-looking fruits and various vessels of dark-colored liquids, while the lower shelves were stuffed with folded blankets and furs. At least those weren’t grey, like everything else on the planet: the furs were a deep hickory brown, its pelage as silky as rabbit, while the blankets were woven of a thick yet buttery-soft fiber near in color to natural indigo. 

Darcy quickly pulled out all of the blankets and furs, and began to spread them out in layers in front of the hearth to make a nest for Bucky. “It’s fucking cold in here,” she said, keeping back one of the deep-blue blankets to throw over her own shoulders. 

Steve kneeled down, carefully lowering Bucky’s body onto the makeshift bed, stretched his legs out for him, and then waited to see that he seemed settled and was breathing comfortably. Satisfied, he set about investigating the hearth, looking for a way to set fire to the grey logs within. 

Darcy, meanwhile, made her way around the perimeter of the room, the blanket around her like a cocoon, scanning the walls, figuring there had to be a secret hatch or a hidden door they were missing. The guard had implied there was a ‘chamber’ for her personal use, hadn’t he? That the men had to stay out of? So where the fuck was the rest of the suite? Because this couldn’t possibly be it— just an empty square room, with nothing in it but a fireplace and some blankets. And seriously, where the hell was the bathroom? 

“I’m gonna literally pee my pants any second,” she complained, “and it’s not like I have a change of clothes or anything.” 

Steve gave up on the hearth temporarily, moving to help Darcy in her search, but he had no more luck than she’d had. The walls were all that same, damnable grey brick, except for— oh. 

“Hey, what about this?” he said, gesturing to a section of smoother, slab-like material similar to the front gate— the one the guard had made to vanish. “Remember how he…” 

“I know,” said Darcy. “I already tried it.” 

Steve placed his hand on the bricks next to the slab and waited, but nothing happened. “Huh,” he said, and moved his hand a little higher up, trying again. Nothing. 

“Let me try again,” said Darcy, and he moved aside so she could put her hand on the brick. Again— nothing. 

“I’m dying here,” she said, almost whimpering. “My bladder’s gonna explode, for real.” 

Steve had moved to the sideboard, looking over the various cups and plates and jugs that’d been placed there— most of them hand-thrown, of the same drab grey as the clay bricks. He passed those up, opting for a large, double-handled pitcher made of a lightweight golden metal— perhaps meant for water, but empty at present. 

“Here,” he said. “Just go ahead and use this. I’ll, uh… I’ll go to the other end of the room, turn my back.” 

She didn’t hesitate. “Thanks,” she said, grabbing it out of his hands and speed-walking to the opposite corner of the room. She ripped down the zipper of her jeans, pulled her pants down and squatted over the pitcher just in time, sighing in bliss, not even embarrassed by how loud or gross it was. 

“We’re all gonna laugh about this later,” she said, talking over the noise of her pee hitting the bottom of the metallic vessel. 

“We’re not gonna remember any of it,” Steve said, from across the room. “If he keeps his word.” 

“True,” she said, finishing up, and then swore when she realized she was going to have to drip-dry. Hoping Steve’s back was still turned, she bounced a little, trying to shake off as much as possible, and then pulled her pants back up. 

“All done,” she said, zipping up and turning around. Steve was still facing away, in the shadows of the other corner, like the gentleman he was. “I’m, uh… I’m just gonna leave it in the corner there, for whoever else needs it,” she said, and he turned and held up a finger as if to say, _I’ll take you up on that_ , and they switched corners, laughing at the absurdity of the situation. 

“No luck on the fireplace, huh?” she said, as he took his turn having zero dignity. 

“There’s nothin’ to light it with, that I can find,” he said. “Maybe it’s like the doors… somethin’ magic. I mean, if the people here… if they really did what Loki said they did… to his— you know… then they gotta have some kind of magic, right?” 

“Yeah, maybe,” she said. “Maybe they assume everyone does, and we’re just a bunch of weirdos, unable to spontaneously dissolve stone and make fire.” 

“All done,” he said, and she turned around, and then yawned as she went over to check on Bucky, now that the bladder crisis was over. He looked perfectly peaceful, all stretched out on the furs, his lips gently parted as he breathed the soft pulsing rhythm of a restful sleep. 

“At least Bucky seems to be okay,” she said, kneeling down beside him. He was still wearing his heavy boots, and she scooted down and unlaced them, but decided to leave them on his feet, not wanting to wake him by accident. His shirt— a heavy, midnight-blue chamois button-down that she’d given him for Christmas— was riding up his chest a bit, pushing into his neck, and she gently tugged it down a little, and then went ahead and unbuttoned the top three buttons, trying to make him more comfortable. 

“Why don’t you go ahead and sleep a bit, if you want.” said Steve. “Try to warm up. I’ll keep watch.” He sat down on the edge of the hearth and started poking around inside again, looking for a switch or anything he might be missing. 

“You sure?” she said, barely getting the words out before another yawn escaped. 

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll wake you if anything… happens.” 

“Maybe I will then,” she said. “Rest up for whatever shit-storm awaits us tomorrow.” 

She stretched herself out next to Bucky, carefully moving his prosthetic arm so that she could snuggle up against him, adjusting the blue blanket to cover the rest of her body. She nestled her head into his chest, and slipped her hand inside his shirt, resting it against the white, ribbed tank he had on underneath. He was warm, and she could feel his chest rising and falling with his regular, quiet breaths. The simple contact and warmth of his body, the comfort of his familiar scent, made her feel safe, and she relaxed a little— her first chance to do so, since Loki had materialized in the cabin on Earth. 

Earth— God, maybe it was all just a crazy dream. She was going to wake up in bed with Bucky, back at the cabin, and have a funny story to tell over breakfast… 

“If he wakes up before me, don’t let me sleep, okay?” she said to Steve, just in case it really _was_ all happening. 

“Sure thing,” he said, quietly. “Sleep now.” 

“Kay,” she murmured, already succumbing. “Night, Steve. Love you. Sorry you got sucked into this.” 

“Not your fault,” he said. “Love you back.” 

<<>>

“Well, this is cozy.” 

Steve woke with a start, finding himself fully clothed, half-folded in furs on the floor, spooned up against Darcy’s warm body, which was in turn wrapped around Bucky like an octopus. He didn’t even remember lying down. Loki— still in his ‘Tolkir’ disguise— was standing in the middle of the room, looking down at them with a sly smirk. 

“Darcy,” said Steve, pushing on her shoulder. “Wake up.” 

“Huh?” she said, blinking her eyes. “Wha? Steve? Wha’s going— oh shit. It was all real, wasn’t it.” 

Loki raised one of his eyebrows, taking in the positions of their bodies— Darcy’s hand still tunneled into Bucky’s shirt, her ample thigh draped across his legs so she could press the rest of herself against him, while the length of Steve’s strong body molded against the shape of Darcy’s, his hand resting on the full curve of her hip in the skintight stretch jeans. 

Steve saw the way Loki was looking at them, and ripped his hand away, pushing himself back as though he’d burned himself. 

“Sorry, Darcy,” he said, abashed. “Didn’t mean to—” 

“S’okay Steve,” she mumbled tiredly. “How else were we s’posed to keep warm…” 

Loki was practically leering. “I’m not interrupting, am I?” He shook his head in a pretense of incredulity. “My darling girl, I still fail to see why you hide your proclivities…” His tongue darted out to wet the inside of his lower lip as he breathed deeply… “Why, if _I_ had ready access to two such _fine_ specimens of willing, well-built, _virile_ —” 

“Leave her alone, willya?” said Steve, irritated. He sat up and ran his hand through his sleep-tousled hair, trying to smooth it down. 

Loki tittered at his discomfort. “Your shame is an ill-fitting— and dare I say— _needless_ veil, Captain. I’ve already told you, you’ll get no judgement from _me_ —” 

“That’s enough!” said Steve, sharply, and he stood up, roughly tossing the furs aside. 

Bucky made a deep inhaling sound, and began to stir, rolling himself over into Darcy’s body with a heavy, somnolent groan. 

“It’s okay, Steve,” said Darcy. “Just ignore him. He’s a douche-canoe.” She rubbed her thumb up the line of Bucky’s cheekbone and then dragged her fingers down his prickly jaw as his eyes began to flutter open. “Hey, babe,” she said, dropping her voice to a whisper. “You awake?” 

“I’d shout it from the _rooftops_ , were I in her place,” said Loki, biting his lip to keep from grinning. He was like a cat, batting at a helpless crumple of paper, toying with him. 

“She’s not— we’re not—” Steve had started pacing angrily, and finally he stopped, his hands on his hips, and said, “For Christ’s sake— I’m gay, okay?” And then his head sagged and he said, “Aw, fuck me. Of course.” And he threw a hand up in the air in exasperation, and then turned away from all of them, crossing his arms over his chest as he faced the dark corner. 

Bucky was coming around now, blinking his eyes fully open. “Darcy? That you? What’s going on?” 

“Right here,” she said, as she let out a sigh of relief to hear him speaking English, and sounding like himself. She gently stroked a wisp of dark hair out of his face, tucking the ends behind his ear. “You feel okay?” 

He sat up a little, saw Loki standing there, and, apparently recognizing the man even in his disguise, sighed and lay back down, flat on his back, his open eyes staring at the ceiling. “Fuck. It was all real, wasn’t it.” 

“Yup,” she said. 

“What’d I miss?” 

“Uh… you spoke a bunch of Russian, Loki did a Sandman on you and turned himself into a blond, we walked to a town with some pink-eyed soldiers with spears, Steve and I peed in a jar, everyone slept a bit, and Steve just told Loki he’s gay.” 

“Course I did,” said Steve, bitterly. “Course, the first time I actually say it out loud, after how many years, and it’s to _this_ asshole.” 

“Steve,” she said, her heart going out to him. Though she knew Steve had been testing the waters of the more open-minded twenty-first century in the years since she’d met him, he’d never actually said it out loud, never made it public— had never come to a decision about how to blend the truths and demands of his public and personal lives. 

“You just make everything sour, don’t you,” he said to Loki, as he turned back around and began to pace again. “That’s what you do.” 

“Perhaps it is,” said Loki, with almost a note of introspection, but then he wandered serenely over to the sideboard, careless of the torment his gibes had left in their wake, and examined the items on the top shelf with a practiced detachment. “You were given wine?” he said, sniffing at a pinkish, glass-like decanter. “I didn’t get wine.” 

He turned slightly then, frowning in confusion as he finally caught up with the rest of the conversation. “Why have you been relieving yourselves in a jar? And truly— why were you all lying on the floor in the dark?” 

“What the fuck else were we supposed to do?” said Darcy. She’d leaned down to give Bucky a tender good-morning (middle-of-the-night?) kiss, and then stood, brushed herself off, and made her way over to Steve, stopping his nervous pacing with a huge bear-hug, as much as that was possible with their size differences. 

“Fuck him,” she said, quietly. “Seriously, just, _Fuck. Him_. And by the way? You didn’t say it to _him_. You just said it. To the room, to yourself… to the Universe maybe. Whatever. I love that you said it, and there’s nothing sour about it, and I love you.” 

“Indeed,” agreed Loki, ignoring most of her rant, “As I said before— why not shout it from the rooftops?” He was idly picking through the alien fruits on the sideboard. “Well,” he amended, “maybe not on _this_ planet. They frown upon such pairings, apparently favoring the act for its biological purpose.” He made a scoffing sound. “Simpletons.” 

“About that,” said Darcy, her arms still wrapped firmly around Steve, who’d leaned down to kiss the top of her head, “How’d you end up on this backward-ass lame-o planet anyway? Doesn’t seem like your kind of place at all.” 

Loki picked out a small, spherical fruit that looked like a mandarin, only with a deep-purple-hued rind, almost the color of eggplant. “I was picking mushrooms,” he said, without a hint of jest. 

Darcy started laughing and it took her a moment to speak once she realized he was serious. “Really,” she deadpanned. “Like Little Red Riding Hood? Did you have a basket?” 

He frowned. “She was picking flowers, was she not?” And then, “I assure you, it’s the truth.” He began to peel the fruit deftly, dropping the little pieces of purple rind onto an empty saucer next to the fruit dish. 

“I was researching a recipe that called for some… exotic ingredients, and one of them was a particular variety of mushroom that can only be found, well… here. In the wood just beyond these city gates, to be precise.” 

“A recipe,” said Steve, with obvious skepticism in his voice. “As if I’d believe you— a _prince_ , coddled your entire life— actually cook your own food.” 

“I bet it was for some kind of space quackery, like to maintain a killer boner or something,” said Darcy. She’d been joking, just trying to needle him a bit in revenge for picking on Steve, but when he fell conspicuously silent, she looked over and saw that he wore a sheepish look on his face. 

“Oh my God, I was _right_?” She let go of Steve and bent over double, laughing, unable to help herself. 

“It was not just for _me_ ,” he said, defensively. He’d finished peeling the fruit, and was now delicately removing tiny, turquoise web-like strands of pith from the lobes within. “It was for, eh… a _party_ I was planning to attend…” 

Darcy was still bent over, almost crying. “Oh my God, it’s too much,” she said, connecting the dots. “You lost your dick while you were out mushroom picking to make Spanish Fly for a space orgy…” She almost couldn’t breathe. “You can’t make this shit up.” 

“What’s it called?” said Bucky suddenly, from where he still lay prone on the floor. 

“I beg your pardon?” asked Loki. 

“The mushroom,” said Bucky. “What’s it called.” 

“The species is referred to as _trofirius_ in the notes I was consulting,” he said. “Why do you ask?” 

“Wanted to see if you were makin’ it up,” he said. 

“And your verdict?” asked Loki, removing the final, threadlike wisp of pith. He set it gently on top of the pyramid of peels on the saucer, as though garnishing a gourmet dessert. 

“You ain’t lyin’,” said Bucky. 

Loki grinned and sectioned off a piece of the now-immaculate fruit— each of its lobes like a purple, elongated grape— and popped it into his mouth. 

“Sounds like an STD,” said Darcy, and then dropped her voice to mimic something more male: “Sorry, baby—I got a scorching case of _trofiris_.” 

“Tro- _FIRI_ -us,” said Loki, correcting her pronunciation. 

“Whatever,” she said. “Figures, though— of course an ingredient for something like that would be found on a planet where nobody even uses it.” 

“Oh, they make use of it,” said Loki. “I've since learned that they have a certain… etiquette… for its handling.” 

“Is that why you got in trouble?” she asked. “You get caught using the forbidden boner mushroom without a permit?” 

Steve huffed out the sound of a laugh, without really smiling. He’d finally emerged from the shadows of the corner and had taken up a seat on the edge of the hearth. 

“Not at all,” said Loki, and he looked around, clearly wanting to sit as well, and then frowned. “Why haven’t you— you still haven’t explained why you’ve chosen to huddle on the floor in the dark, like a pack of wolves. If it’s truly not a carnal pursuit, then what possible—” 

“Because apparently there’s no way to properly use this goddamn planet if you’re not a fucking magician,” said Darcy testily. “Unless there’s something super obvious we’re missing.” 

Loki’s brow furrowed as he set the uneaten portion of the little purple fruit down on the plate, and then strode over to the fireplace, Steve scrambling to stand and get out of his way. “Did you try…” He placed his hand on the brick next to it, and the wood inside ignited, instantly, with a _whoosh_. 

“How did you do that?” said Darcy, indignantly. “We were totally trying to do that on the slabs over there, and— nothing!” She walked over to one of the outlined, smooth areas, and showed him, pressing her hand against the adjoining brick. “See?” 

“Interesting,” he said, and strode over to stand next to her, and was about to place his hand over hers, when suddenly the dark-haired man— Barnes— was _there_ , standing to the side, just behind him, in the perfect position to deliver any number of potentially fatal maneuvers. He hadn’t even heard the man move. 

“Hands off,” said Bucky, his voice deadly, and then he looked at Darcy and nodded. “Unless she says it’s okay.” 

Loki had instinctively raised both hands, showing he meant no harm, and swallowed down his unease that the man had managed to startle him once again. He cleared his throat and spoke carefully. “If the lady would permit me,” he said. “I’d like to understand…” 

Darcy looked at him, measuring, and then nodded. “It’s okay,” she said. “I wanna understand, too. We were so pissed off last night, when we couldn’t get anything to work.” Bucky took a step back, and she placed her hand back on the brick. She nodded again to Loki, inviting him to do what he would. 

Moving slowly, keeping one eye warily on her man standing guard, Loki gently lifted her little hand and repositioned it to the proper location on the wall. “Do you not feel that?” he murmured, and he turned his head back to see his hand covering hers against the wall, trying to tamp down on the electric thrill of being allowed to touch her, mindful of Barnes’ eyes drilling into his back. 

“Feel what?” she asked. “It’s just the same, stupid brick.” 

“Fascinating,” he said, and then turned to look at the assassin. “Mr. Barnes,” he said. “If you would…” And he inclined his head, inviting the man to approach. 

“Just ‘Barnes’ is fine,” said Bucky, as he moved up to the wall. “Don’t need the ‘mister’.” Darcy moved out of the way so that he could put his hand where hers had been. It was just a wall— cool and solid, nothing unusual about it. He shook his head. “Don’t feel anything special,” he said. “What do you feel?” he asked Loki. 

“Aren’t you gonna ask me to try?” said Steve, approaching the group. 

“Unnecessary,” said Loki. “I have all the evidence I need.” He turned to Darcy. “It seems you were right,” he said. “It never occurred to me…” He drifted off, not finishing the remark, and began to wander around the room as he sorted through his thoughts. 

“What never occurred to you?” she asked, following him with her eyes. 

“As I’m incapable of seeing the environment through— I had no reason to think—” He’d retrieved the other half of the little purple fruit from where he’d left it on the saucer, and he chewed another section of it thoughtfully before speaking again. 

“Perhaps you said it in jest, but I believe you were correct,” he finally said. “Much of the room is, as you said, ‘magically’ controlled.” He sectioned off the remaining pieces and ate them in quick succession. 

“But how could you not realize—” 

“Imagine you were a—,” he began, and then he paused, turned and casually touched another brick on the wall, and a large, comfortable looking chair with plush burgundy cushions appeared next to him. 

“Did you do that?” said Darcy. “Did you… conjure that?” 

“Not exactly,” he said. “It is a fixture of the room— an option, waiting to be… called into being. I merely… enabled it.” He sat down and quickly launched back into the lesson. “Imagine you were giving instructions to a traveler…” 

“Can we sit too?” she interrupted. “Or are you just gonna make us stand while you impart wisdom to us.” 

“Ah, yes,” he said, standing back up. “Of course.” He actually looked momentarily abashed for having to be reminded of his manners. He approached the wall again, and then turned and raised his eyebrows at them. “Individual chairs? Or…” 

“A big comfy couch?” Darcy suggested. “And a coffee table.” 

“I believe there is… yes,” he said, and a moment later, a long, deep-chocolate-brown couch made of some kind of leather-like material appeared in the room, and a few seconds later, a low rectangular table of rich mahogany-colored lumber. 

“Well would you look at that,” she said with a hefty dose of snark, as she took in the pretty brown wood. “A non-grey building material. Stop the fucking presses.” 

The fire was beginning to warm the room, but Darcy still bent to grab one of the blue blankets off the floor before moving to plop down on the couch. She draped the blanket over her body, and then immediately put her dirty sneakers up on the coffee table, enjoying the way her lack of manners made Loki twitch. 

“Non-grey?” said Loki, not understanding the joke. 

“Yeah,” she said. “You know, like how everything else on this fucking planet is grey. The walls. The wood. All the paths, the floors. The entire fucking forest outside of town.” 

“Fascinating,” he said again, and looked around the room appraisingly. 

“Wait,” she said, leaning forward on the couch. “Are you telling me all this shit isn’t really grey? Are you seeing something else?” 

“I’m not entirely sure,” he said, and he actually did sound as though he were intrigued, and then he laughed— an actual, authentic burst of pleasure, which was so strange to hear, coming from him— and he said, “Forgive me, please… it’s just—” He stood up and put a hand to his mouth, almost shyly covering the genuine smile there. “I haven’t been truly _interested_ in something for…” 

Steve was standing by the wall where Loki had apparently enabled the furniture, running his hands over the bricks slowly, like Indiana Jones searching for an invisible lever. 

“So were you gonna finish the parable, or what?” said Bucky, as he joined Darcy on the couch. She grinned up at him as he sat down, and, pulling her shoes off the table, bent her legs and scooted over so that she could snuggle into his warm body. 

“Certainly,” said Loki, and he flashed a grin at the man, but resisted the urge to once again be impressed by this killer who— his brain told him— spoke in a lower-class, uneducated vernacular, yet casually tossed out words like _parable_ … 

Darcy’s man was quite the enigma— all manner of _capable_ , with the exception of his… _episode_ by the fountain; swarthy and strong, though lacking that boorish masculinity that Thor and his kind brandished so vulgarly; the hints of a keen intellect with a curious indifference to showcasing it… the man was a mystery: it was no strain to understand the appeal… 

Loki sat back down, politely crossing his legs as he once again made himself comfortable. “As I was saying…” He was addressing his words to the couple across from him, but he knew the Captain was listening too, from his station at the wall, persisting in his fruitless examination of the masonry. 

“Suppose you were expecting a visit from a traveler, from a faraway land. You’d dispatched written instructions detailing the most expedient route, knowing, at a certain point, the traveler would reach a fork in the road. While both paths ultimately lead to the same destination, one route— the faster of the two— is marked by a twisted, bent-over tree; while the other— the longer, circuitous route— is identified by a trunk as rigidly vertical as a column of marble. You enjoin the traveler be most certain in taking the path marked by the _bent_ tree, as your business with him is urgent, and time is short.” 

“When he arrives three hours too late, you berate the poor fellow for taking the wrong path, and take him for a fool. He argues, just as passionately, that he followed your instructions to the letter, particularly the choice of path marked by the ‘bent’ tree— the tree with the trunk that reached straight as a rod into the sky.” 

“I get it,” said Steve, turning from where he’d been inspecting the wall. “In the traveler’s country, ‘bent’ means somethin’ totally different.” 

“Or perhaps,” said Loki, “On the traveler’s world, the great majority of things are twisted, making those objects that to us would appear ‘straight’ the ones that are actually deviating from the norm, and therefore… ‘bent’… to their eyes.” 

“S’little like Plato’s cave,” said Bucky, rubbing at his chin. 

Loki inclined his head, huffing out a noise of approval in spite of himself. “Indeed, Mr. Barnes. It is quite true that the names we give to things are bound by our limited perception.” 

Darcy was looking at Bucky, eyebrows raised. “Seriously. Plato.” 

“What?” said Bucky, and then he chuckled. “Sweetheart, I told you a million times I practically read the whole library while I was livin’ on the street… don’t know why you keep gettin’ surprised, when it turns out I ain’t some kinda ignoramus.” 

“Surprised,” isn’t exactly the word I would use, she said, biting her lip and waggling her eyebrows playfully, and he laughed at her a little as she ran her eyes up and down his body like he was something good to eat. He adjusted his position on the couch, tugging at the crotch of his jeans before leaning back again, one of his arms stretched out across the top edge of the couch behind her. 

“So goin’ back to the story about the traveler,” he said to Loki, who’d watched their little exchange like an anthropologist studying a couple of newly-discovered specimens. “You’re sayin’ we’re the travelers, and we’re seein’ the room grey, and thinkin’ that’s the way it is—” 

“And it _is_ grey— to you,” agreed Loki. “It never occurred to me to question whether or not you were seeing what I was seeing. Why would I?” 

“Yeah, but didn’t you notice you were using magic to do stuff here?” said Darcy. 

He raised his eyebrows, trying to determine how to explain, without sounding insulting. “That would be akin to saying… why did you fail to realize you were using your _stomach_ to digest your meal…” 

Loki stood up then, and swept his gaze over the still mostly-empty room. “This enclosure is filled with… I guess you would call them _control panels_. This common area is intended to be fully customizable for the user. But these… panels… are apparently only ‘seeable,’ and perhaps only usable, to those imbued with the magical arts. Which, I suppose as far as these people are concerned, would be _everybody_ , at least to the degree that these rather fundamental tools require. It would not occur to them to make provisions for those without that… sense, just as it never occurred to the man in the story to provide alternate instructions for those with a different concept for the word _bent_.” 

“There’s a difference, though,” said Steve. “In the story, the traveler could learn the new meanings, for the place he was visiting. He could use a— a travel guide to help him figure stuff out. I’m guessin’ we can’t do that here. Even though we know about it now, we still can’t use it.” 

“A fair point,” said Loki, sighing as he looked around again. “I shall see what I can do…” 

He went back to the sideboard and picked up a small, empty drinking cup, and then strode over to one of the two smooth slabs that suggested the presence of a doorway. He pressed his hand to the brick next to it, and the stone slab disappeared, just as the slab at the courtyard wall had vanished for the guard. He bent down and placed the little clay cup next to edge of the cutout in the wall. 

“That should interrupt the field,” he said, and stood back, testing his hypothesis, as Darcy approached the doorway, peering inside. 

“I _knew_ it,” she said, as she got a look at the newly revealed room, taking in the enormous, four-poster bed within. “There’s like a fricking luxury bedroom in here. I bet that other door goes to a bathroom, doesn’t it.” 

“Most likely,” said Loki. “My accommodations are much the same, and there is a modestly-sized room for grooming and—” 

“Show me,” said Darcy, and he obliged, repeating the trick at the other slab, using another little drinking cup to prevent the slab from re-materializing. 

“There still no toilet or anything,” said Darcy, as she stepped into the bathroom ahead of him. It was just as bleak and austere as the main room, at least to her eyes; most of the room was taken up by a large transparent-walled chamber, like an ultramodern shower stall, but lacking any visible fixtures. “Don’t these aliens ever have to take a crap?” 

Loki ignored the vulgar question, taking it as rhetorical in any case, and then gestured to the chamber. “It is like a… I would call it a steam bath,” he said. “You step in, unclothed, and it will simultaneously dispose of your waste and sanitize your skin.” 

“Well, that’s sort of inconvenient,” she said. “Having to totally strip down every time? If you just pull down your pants, will it dry your clothes? You know, like the disinfectant lifts in that episode of Dr. Who… the one where they go to _New_ New York?” 

Loki shook his head. “I haven’t seen that one…” 

“Huh,” she said. “Well, I’ll give it a try later.” She was dying to rinse out her underwear, hating that lingering chafe of uncleanliness after drip-drying, feeling like she was begging for a UTI… 

“So wait,” she said, putting up a hand. “If someone has to like, pinch a loaf, they just… let it drop, and then what— it just disappears? I mean, I don’t wanna go down that road if that’s not how it works…” 

Loki broke into a laugh then, his eyes crinkling, unable to help it. The girl was refreshingly crude, completely uncensored. So unlike the stuffy, polished aristocrats who floated about the palace on Asgard, who would never see fit to speak of such crass topics. Gods, the fun they could have… 

She was smiling back at him, and then her face smoothed out, replaced by something serious, questioning. 

“What happened to you?” she said. “I mean, now that I remember it all… you were— I mean, you seemed— nice… smart… _fun_.” 

Her words startled him, and she was looking at him so earnestly that he could feel his heart squeeze for a moment. Even wearing this ridiculous disguise, he hadn’t felt so… _seen_ … in an age… 

He took a breath, pushing the emotion aside with a numbing shroud that slipped on as easily as a second skin, his eyes going cold as the feelings were snuffed out, smothered by the familiar mask. “Reality happened.” 

She noted the abrupt change and he could see her accepting it, letting the moment go, and a part of him wanted her to say _no_ — to reach out and grab at it, fight for it… fight for _him_ … but he was a fool… she was not his, to wish for such things… 

“So how are we supposed to make it work?” she was saying, turning back to gesture toward the big open stall. 

He sighed, suddenly feeling tired. “Let me see if I can…” 

He stepped carefully into the glass chamber, but rather than pressing his hand against the wall within to operate one of the control panels, he held his fingers a few inches away, and she could see the golden glow of his magic hover around it. He tilted his head, concentrating, and then she saw what looked like an envelope-sized, Star-Trek-style control panel come into view behind his hand. 

“Yay!” she squealed, and actually jumped up and down a little. Loki struggled not to smile at her reaction, tried not to encourage that little bit of feeling, still trying to pierce its way through the shroud… 

It felt… good, and he found he did not like the feeling— not when it could only lead to disappointment. 

The two super-soldiers were crowding their way into the room behind her now, having heard her little ovation, needing to investigate; Barnes moved to stand directly behind her, putting his big hands on her shoulders. _Ah_. There it was, finally— just a hint of possession. Claiming what was _his_. As if there’d been any doubt. 

Loki sighed, hating how deflated it all made him feel. “My… modifications should allow you to use the chamber’s basic functions.” 

He showed them all how to work the controls— no additional magic was required for that, at least— and then pulled up the panel outside the chamber for the various other grooming items and sundries, materializing a generous assortment of selections for them, until finally, growing fatigued, he gestured to them to exit the room. 

“Is there anything else you require before I… withdraw to my own rooms?” he asked, feeling the increasing urge to be alone. 

“Do they know you’re here?” asked Darcy, plopping back down onto the couch. Bucky joined her there, while Steve wandered back over to the fireplace, staring at the flames flickering within. 

“They do not,” said Loki. “It would not be considered… appropriate. I created a double of myself to inhabit the other dwelling while I am here, should the need arise to convince them I am behaving…” 

“And the thing about Steve and Bucky needing to…” 

“They would do well to keep away from your bedchamber,” he agreed, nodding in the direction of the other exposed room. 

“But they can’t see us, can they?” asked Darcy. “I mean, how would anyone even know?” 

“As far as I know, they cannot,” he said, “But I would not advise…” He trailed off and then rephrased. “I would not take unnecessary risks,” he said, glancing briefly at Barnes. “It is not… worth it,” he added, and made a nervous little movement with his hips, lifting on one side a bit as though trying to… adjust. 

“Got it,” said Darcy, her eyes flicking briefly to his crotch. “About that,” she said, leaning back into the couch, “What really happened, anyway? Shouldn’t we talk about the hearing or whatever? I need to know what they’re gonna say, what _I_ should say… or _not_ say, maybe…” 

Loki sighed, not wishing to linger, but he knew she was right. “Indeed.” He looked at the vessels of liquids on the sideboard. “Would you care for some wine? Would you mind if I…” 

“Yeah, go ahead,” she said. “Bring it on over.” 

“What time is it, anyway?” asked Steve, yawning. He’d finally joined the rest of them in the makeshift seating area, dropping his tired body onto the couch, on Bucky’s free side. 

“We yet have several hours until daybreak,” said Loki, finding a tray for the wine decanter and some drinking cups. “You slept for slightly less than three of your hours.” 

“Okay,” said Darcy. “So we’ll still have a little time to sleep, and then get ready for the thing after we wake up.” 

“Yes,” he said, setting the tray down on the table. “The days here are shorter than on your world, but there will be sufficient time to rest and prepare ourselves… We will not be expected to socialize in advance of the audience, thank the Norns…” He poured out four glasses of the deep purple liquid, and, picking one for himself, settled back into the plush cushioned chair opposite the couch. 

“So spill,” said Darcy. “What horrifying crime did you commit? You said something about your _regard_ for some girl? Is flirting against the law here or something? ” 

Steve immediately put up a hand. “You, uh… I mean, don’t feel like you gotta give us all the details, or…” 

Loki took a sip of the wine and smiled, shaking his head. “Fear not, Captain— it was completely innocent, I assure you. It was simply a… misunderstanding. And I was not, in fact, even remotely hoping to… _encourage_ the attention of the lady— quite the opposite, really. My actions were entirely misrepresented.” 

Darcy had leaned forward to grab one of the cups, and sniffed at it, and then tentatively took a sip. “It’s good,” she said, looking at Bucky as she swiped her tongue across her lips. “A little sweet, like a dessert wine, but good…” 

“Take care not to drink too much,” warned Loki. “The spirits here are… strong, compared to those on your realm.” 

“That so,” said Bucky, leaning forward to grab one of the cups. 

“Gonna see if you can catch a buzz?” teased Darcy, smiling at him. 

“Maybe,” he said. 

Steve just leaned back into the couch cushions, crossing his arms over his big chest. Bucky drained the contents of his cup in one long drink, and then swapped it for Steve’s full one, draining that one as well, before refilling both. 

“So anyway,” said Steve… 

“I shall endeavor to be succinct,” said Loki, “not like Thor, who would attempt to regale you with outlandishly embellished tales of his daring and prowess, tediously meandering for hours over meaningless tangents and—” 

“Aw, come on,” said Darcy. “I love Thor’s stories. That one about the boatwright with the three angry girlfriends and the watermelon? I almost puke from laughing every time he tells that one…” 

Loki just pinched his eyebrows together, confused, and then launched into his story without further comment. 

“I was in the forest,” he said. “The one just outside the city, where we first arrived. I was sourcing my ingredients, when I heard the sound of something creeping up behind… thinking it a beast of the wood, I whirled around, ready to defend myself, but rather found myself face-to-face with a young lady, clearly a member of the race of the city with which you’ve now become acquainted…” 

“You missed it,” said Darcy, interrupting, turning to Bucky to explain. “You were… somewhere else in your head, speaking Russian, and Loki put a sleep spell on you, to calm you down. These city guards came to collect us, and they were all golden-skinned with silver hair and these weird pink eyes with big black dots…” 

“There’s two suns,” added Steve excitedly. “ _Two suns_. Just like that Star Wars movie, Buck.” 

“Hold up,” said Bucky, setting his cup down on the table. “Go back— I was speakin’ Russian? Was I—” 

“You weren’t the Soldier,” she rushed to assure him. “I think you thought— it’s like you said… like you were coming out of cryo. You didn’t know me. Loki, he— he was able to speak Russian back to you, and that helped…” 

He sighed and closed his eyes for a few seconds, and when he opened them again, he reached for her hand, curling his big fingers around it and running his thumb over her knuckles. “M’sorry,” he said, and he met her eyes. “Shoulda been there for you, when you needed me.” 

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “ _I’m_ sorry. I should’ve stuck with the Russian, tried harder to learn it, so I could talk to you when _you_ needed _me_ …” 

“But you’re so terrible at it,” he said, completely straight-faced, even as he fought the suppressed laugh that was trying to escape through his nose— because this was their medicine, this humor they shared so easily, like some kind of pharmaceutical bullshittery, a balm to the soul borne from cheeks sore from smiling… 

She, in turn, was serving up her best Miss Piggy— the face that said, ‘ _you are so totally gonna get it, Buster_ ,’ and he couldn’t keep it in anymore, the grin exploding onto his face as he let loose the laugh, his shoulders shaking, and his eyes danced over the beauty of her fake-outraged expression, already crumbling into a smile, and God, he loved her… 

“Fuck you,” she said, already giggling as she said it, and then she let go of his hand and sat up enough to pull his face to her, turning, taking his lips in hers, loving the soft feel of his mouth between the prickle of his beard, and she sighed into him, tasting the wine on his tongue, and he shifted a little on the couch, his hips lifting a bit as his hand came up to hold her head against him, and she couldn’t help the little moan she let out as he went a little deeper and— 

Somebody cleared his throat, loudly, and they blinked, pulling apart reluctantly to see Loki staring at them with an ill-tempered expression. Steve was just shaking his head, tired, his arms still crossed over his chest. 

“Wow, sorry,” said Darcy, smoothing her hair as she tried to return her attention to Loki. She shifted her butt on the couch, folding her legs under herself. “That was totally rude; I completely forgot you were trying to tell a story.” She picked up Bucky’s hand and laced their fingers together in her lap. “So go on, then,” she said. “Tell us the rest.” 

“Well if you _insist_ ,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Where was I?” 

“You were minding your own business, picking mushrooms,” said Steve. “There may or may not have been a basket involved.” 

“And you came across a young maiden, lost in the woods, in need of your assistance,” said Darcy. “Wait, are you sure this isn’t just some fairy tale you’ve co-opted? What happens next— did she lead you back to an enchanted cottage?” 

“Where she transformed into a old crone,” said Bucky. “And then relieved you of your manhood, holdin’ it hostage ’til you signed on to bring her three fresh victims…” 

“If you are _quite_ through,” said Loki, scowling as the three humans snickered on the couch, disgustingly pleased with themselves. He adjusted himself in the chair, tugging down on the hem of his shirt. “She was not lost. She was… running away.” 

“Why?” asked Steve. “She in some kind of trouble?” 

“She would not say,” said Loki, fleetingly annoyed by the genuine concern in the other man’s question. The tale was supposed to be about _his_ woe. 

“It was no matter— whatever her reason, I had to assume, from what little I knew of the culture, that it would not do for me to be caught, eh… _associating_ with her, alone in the wood, and I bade her continue on her way, and leave me be.” 

“Lemme guess— that didn’t happen,” said Bucky. He was refilling both his and Steve’s cups with more of the sweet wine for himself. 

“Not in the slightest,” said Loki. “She continued to shadow me, pestering me incessantly, as I struggled to complete my task, badgering me with an interminable stream of questions about who I was, where I’d come from, and what was in my bag.” 

“I’d hoped to sate her curiosity in offering her a fruit from my collection— I’d come across a number of specimens I’d hoped to take back for further study— this was a lovely, small, spherical variety, smooth and velvet of skin, and the color of flame. I was sorry to let it go, but t’would have been well worth it to give her mouth another occupation…” 

“Uh oh,” said Darcy. 

Loki was nodding. “When I presented her with the fiery orb, her face took on a look of such artless and genuine shock that I knew I’d committed some terrible blunder.” 

“Oh my God, what did it mean?” said Darcy. “Was it like the fruit version of an engagement ring?” 

“Eh… well, I didn’t find out _precisely_ what it meant until later, while I was in their custody, demanding to know what exactly I’d done to offend, and one of the city guards, at long last, took pity on me. It was only through whispers, frustratingly obtuse euphemisms, and some… creative hand gestures, that I finally came to grasp what I’d indicated an interest in doing, in offering _that_ particular fruit…” 

Bucky snickered and tipped back one of his two wine cups, his tongue darting out to catch the drop that lingered on his lip once he’d lowered the cup again. 

“So what was it?” said Darcy. “Eating her out? Up the butt? Sixty-nine? Kunyaza?” 

“What’s Kunyaza?” asked Bucky. 

“Oh, I was reading about it online, in some article about non-penetrative sex,” she said, turning to Bucky enthusiastically. It’s nothing new— it’s an East African technique that goes way back, and it’s all about getting a girl to squirt without actually having to penetrate her.” 

“With my mouth?” asked Bucky. 

“No, with your dick. We should totally try it.” 

“Huh,” he said, as Steve sank deeper into the couch, a hand over his face. 

“So what was it?” she repeated, looking back at Loki, who’d also sunk deeper into his seat, but for different reasons, and was trying to keep his eyes from dilating as his mind threw up a parade of obscene tableaux, imagining a number of delicious ways he’d enjoy making Darcy Lewis, as she’d so crudely put it, _squirt_ … 

“God, if it turns out oral sex is a crime here, I'll never forgive you,” she was saying, turning back to Loki, unaware of the lusty images that were heating his blood. 

Bucky snickered again, but she turned to him and smacked his chest. “Seriously, though. What if we get marooned here?” 

“Then there’s gonna be a lot of law-breakin’ goin’ on at our house,” he said, smirking as he licked his lips. Darcy’s eyelids got a little heavier as she followed the motion of his tongue, and she grinned and grabbed onto the fabric of his vintage-wash jeans where they stretched tight over the meat of his muscular thigh, and she wet her own lips as her skin flushed a bit, heating up… 

Loki was watching, mouth hanging open, as the two humans wound each other up again merely by gazing at one another, and it looked as though she were actually going to swing her body around and climb right into the man’s lap as though nobody else were present, the wench, and Loki cleared his throat loudly again, once more interrupting what almost seemed involuntary between them. 

“Are they always like this?” he grumbled, gesturing to the couple across from him. Darcy, for her part, had temporarily contented herself with a soft kiss to the man’s lips, and then sank back into the cushions by his side, pouting. 

“Uh, yeah,” said Steve, rubbing the back of his neck. He’d moved a few inches further down the couch, away from them, pressing himself into the wide arm of the furniture. “Pretty much. All the time. You’d think after six years…” 

Loki frowned. With the way they'd been acting, he’d assumed it to be a fledgling romance, still in the throes of eager and self-indulgent exploration… Six years were the blink of an eye for his kind, but he knew that for humans it was not an insignificant span of time, and that causal couplings did not survive such durations. He did not want to examine why it bothered him. It _shouldn’t_ bother him— after all, he’d hardly thought of the girl in all the time that had passed since he’d last seen her, only seeking her out _now_ , when he needed her help… 

“Then it is well that you are here to chaperone them, Captain,” he said. “Though we may all snicker privately at the custom, I would charge you take the role seriously, lest any of you find yourselves sharing the indignity of _my_ circumstances,” he said, sullenly gesturing toward his crotch. 

“God, fine,” said Darcy, rolling her eyes with a look of world-weariness that Loki found deeply relatable. “This planet sucks; we get it. So was that it? They don’t like people drinking from the furry cup?” 

Steve sighed, covering his eyes again, wishing the couch could just swallow him up. 

“It is not that they do not _like_ it,” said Loki, ignoring the Captain’s discomfort. “But yes— it was an invitation to pleasure the lady. With my mouth. And it is not illegal, nor strictly discouraged, but it is apparently considered appropriate only between those bound through ceremony, and particularly as a… _blessing_ for a… productive copulation. The fruit is commonly given as a wedding present…” 

“Oh, like a fertility thing?” said Darcy. 

“Precisely.” 

“So what did she do?” she pressed. “After she got over the shock of some strange alien dude saying, ‘ _hey babe, can I go down on you in the woods?_ ’ I mean, to be honest… as much as that might have come as a shock, I’m betting at least a part of her was diggin’ it, if these aliens have the same kind of parts… I mean, at least the _idea_ of it…” 

“That may be,” he said. “After her initial shock, she did in fact begin to… titter, and that’s when she— she had me at a disadvantage, you see, as I scrambled to recover from my misstep, still not understanding what I’d done— she took that opportunity to leap forward and snatch not only the fruit from my hand, but my collection bag as well, and then the little minx tore off with my property, bounding through the trees like a gamesome fox.” 

“Oh, shit,” said Darcy. 

“I gave chase, apprehending her quickly, of course—” 

“Of course,” echoed Steve. 

“And tackled her to the ground. The collection bag went flying, strewing its contents across the forest floor, and that is how we found ourselves in the distinctly compromising position of my body being pinned over hers, my belongings in disarray around us—” 

“Including the boner mushrooms…” said Darcy. 

“Including the— yes— the _trofiria_ , at which inopportune moment we found ourselves suddenly surrounded by a detachment of city guards, sent by her father to retrieve her. It seems this wasn’t the first time she’d run off; I daresay she makes a game of it… as a cure for boredom, possibly. They’d heard our chase through the trees, and the resulting scuffle, and located us quite easily.” 

“Shit,” said Darcy. “I take it the… the lady didn’t tell the truth about what was going on, huh.” 

“She did not. She in fact made the ludicrous claim that it was I who’d persuaded her to leave the comfort and safety of her family hearth in the first place, and that I had arranged this… illicit rendezvous… in the wood.” 

“An outsider. Trying to steal away one of their ladies. With the— the mushrooms.” Steve sighed. 

“Not only that, but she yet held the… _suggestive_ fruit in her hand, plain for all to see.” 

“That ain’t good,” said Bucky. 

“Not even a little,” agreed Loki. He sighed and drained the rest of the wine from his cup, and then leaned forward to set it down on the table. “I cannot blame her, really,” he said, shaking his head. “It was a clever solution to her predicament, to so deftly shift the blame to me.” He made a frustrated noise. “I was a fool to chase her. No bag of expendable forage is worth the trouble this has caused me.” 

“It’s instinct,” said Darcy, and they all looked at her, questioning. “I was trying on shoes once, in a department store, and this guy came over and just grabbed my bag off the seat next to me, and took off. And what did I do? I totally started running after the asshole, yelling, ‘ _hey!_ ’ I mean, that was pretty stupid, right? The guy could’ve had a weapon or something. He could’ve hurt me. But all I could think was, _hey, that’s my stuff_. I wanted it back.” 

“Indeed,” said Loki, granting her a empathetic smile. 

“Did you get it back?” said Bucky, turning to her. “Your bag.” 

“I did,” she said, smiling. “It was really weird. It was like he totally wasn’t expecting it, this short, chunky girl with dorky glasses, leapfrogging over the chairs and coming after him like a madwoman. He actually stopped and said some dumbass thing like, ‘I didn’t take your bag,’ while he’s standing there, still holding my motherfucking bag like an idiot. And then he gave it back, and took off running again.” 

“That’s my girl,” said Bucky, and grinned, as he threaded his hand into her hair to rub the back of her neck, and they looked like they wanted to start something again, but managed to restrain themselves this time. 

“I still don’t get it,” said Steve, talking to Loki. “How’s Darcy supposed to fix any of that? S’not like what… what happened between the two of you— when you were forced to— it’s not like it makes you out to be a— a saint or anything.” 

“No,” he said. “But it allows her to attest to my… _character_. That I— that though there was a chance that we’d be punished if we hadn’t… that in spite of the risk, I ultimately left the decision to her.” 

“But you already knew,” said Darcy. “I mean, from past experience, you knew you’d just get paired with a new… partner… even if they’d zapped me, so…” 

“I did not,” he said, shaking his head. “Five pairings— two of which ended unfavorably… it does not make a reliable sample size to draw a sound conclusion. Certainly I’d _hoped_ , but… had I been determined to ensure the preservation of my life at any cost, I would have assumed… I’d have insisted on _persuading_ you, or…” 

“Oh,” she said, and she set her cup down, understanding. She was quiet, almost confused, when she asked her next question. “So why didn’t you? I mean, before you knew— before you were sure it was, uh… gonna go your way?” 

It was completely quiet for a moment, save for the crackling of the fireplace. He finally shook his head, not looking at any of them. “Say what you will about my evil deeds, but… I am no brute. I have never— nor shall I ever… I would never force myself upon another that way…” 

He leaned forward then, and refilled his glass, looked up and met her eyes, and she nodded, silently, and he topped hers off as well. The two other men were sitting quietly, just listening. 

“Over a thousand years of battlefields on myriad distant worlds, fighting alongside Thor and his fellows in the so-called _glory_ of bloodshed… destruction of lives, property, entire villages…” His eyes flicked to the two men. “You are both men of war. You know what can happen… the utter _carnage_ of unbridled warfare, the terror of the mass of soldiery in the wake of battle, their blood still up, set upon the most defenseless of the citizenry…”

He set the decanter of wine down, a little too hard. “That is not who I am.” He leaned back again and let out a breath and sipped at his drink.

Nobody knew what to say for a moment, and then Steve finally spoke up, softly. “Why can’t you just… magic it back yourself? With all you can do…” 

Loki made a scoffing sound where he sat. “You think we’d be assembled here together, were it that simple?” 

“Just tryin’ to understand,” said Steve. 

“They hold my flesh… imprisoned somewhere… bound. I cannot recover it through my own means.” 

“What, like in a jar?” asked Darcy, snickering, finally cutting through the serious mood in the room. 

“Do not mock me,” said Loki sourly. “I’d venture to ask how amused _you_ would be, were your man’s… _parts_ taken from him and held as… _collateral_ on an alien world…” 

“Oh, there’d be hell to pay, all right,” she said, and then sighed. “All right then. Tell me what I need to say. Let’s get your dick back.”


	7. Chapter 7

“You must take care what you say, and how you say it.” 

Loki was leaning forward in his chair, speaking with a quiet intensity. They’d discussed it for almost an hour— what she should disclose, and how; what sort of words to use… which to avoid. “As you’ve already witnessed, they are quick to offend… you must guard your tongue.” 

“Yeeeeeah,” said Darcy, drawing out the word. “I’m not so great with that kind of stuff. I’m more of a ‘lay-it-all-out and clean-up-the-mess-later’ kind of gal.” 

Bucky snuffled out a laugh, next to her on the couch, apparently agreeing, but she knew it was one of the things he’d grown to love about her, especially when it came to stupid stuff that she wasn’t shy to speak up about— like the Italian place getting their food order wrong half the time. 

Steve would be guaranteed to say— every single fucking time— “Oh that’s okay,” or some other disgustingly polite thing that practically suggested it was somehow their own fault for being served the wrong food. 

Darcy, meanwhile, had no problem taking charge, saying, “Nope, nope, nope— this’s all gotta go back,” ignoring Steve’s embarrassed protests. Then she’d lay into Steve, pointing out that as the native New Yorker, he should be a pro at sending back food without apologizing, at which point he’d go on a long rant about the steady decline of good ol’ fashioned manners, and then Darcy would start griping about the steady decline of quality control, which she saw as a primary _cause_ of the degeneration of manners, which she’d never actually disputed… 

“It’s like you actually _have_ to be a bit of an asshole now, or people will walk all over you,” she would argue, as Steve shook his head silently, in total disagreement. “It’s practically expected,” she’d insist. “People are literally _confused_ if you’re nice, in certain situations... like they're suspicious, wondering what your angle is...” 

Bucky always stayed out of it, but she knew he enjoyed watching her in action, getting what she needed, and at the end of the night, she’d make up for any lingering discomfort on Steve’s part by leaving a nice tip, and then they’d all go home happy— and full, on the _correct food._

“I wish I could write some of this stuff down,” she complained now, as she leaned back into the couch, “so I could read it over, and practice it in my head…” 

“If it would help,” said Loki, and he reached out his hand, palm down, to hover over the surface of the table in front of him. A moment later, what looked like an old-fashioned wooden lap-desk appeared beneath the golden glow that always seemed to herald his voluntary use of magic. She leaned forward to eagerly grab it, but then stopped herself and looked at him, eyebrows raised in question, to which he nodded with some amusement, giving her permission to take it. 

She pulled it into her lap and lifted the lid, and inside found a sheaf of fine white vellum and a fancy, silver-metallic ballpoint pen. The pen was heavy in her hand, probably made of some precious metal suitable for princely reflections. 

“This from another one of your pockets?” she asked, pulling out a sheet of paper before closing the lid again. 

“Speaking of,” said Bucky, before Loki could reply, “you got any more food squirreled away? I’m guessin’ they aren’t gonna let us order out for pizza, and we’re gonna need more than a bowl of fruit to live on.” 

“Certainly,” said Loki, and, with a little flourish, he called up another glowing ball of golden light. A heavy burlap bag, similar to the one he’d conjured in the forest on Vanaheim, materialized in his grasp, and he set it down on the table, the motion followed by a hand gesture that invited them to partake. 

Bucky leaned forward and loosened the neck on the bag, dumping out the contents: more apples, cheese, and bread, as well as a sleeve of some kind of cured meat, like salami. “Thanks,” he said gruffly, and, slipping a knife from some hidden location on his body, began to deftly slice up the meat and cheese, making tidy rows that fell over like dominoes on the waxy cloth they’d been wrapped in. 

Darcy was taking notes on the lap-desk, trying to cover everything they’d discussed before she forgot it all, and was totally ignoring the food, completely focused on her work. Bucky tore a hunk of bread off the football-shaped loaf and passed it over to her, patiently waiting for her to take it. 

“Thanks, babe,” she finally said, not looking up as she reached across her body with her left hand to accept the offering. She stuck it in her mouth, holding onto it with her teeth, while she finished the thought she was working on: she was using her left hand to steady the paper on the wooden lap desk, as she furiously scribbled with her right. Finally she set down the pen, leaned back, and munched on the bread thoughtfully, trying to think of what she was forgetting. 

Steve had been standing apart from them, staring into the fireplace, but now he returned to the table and grabbed a handful of the meat and cheese, popping a few slices into his mouth as he sank into the couch next to Bucky. He leaned forward to grab one of his friend’s two wine cups, washing down the food with a grimace. 

“You do not care for the wine, Captain?” asked Loki, ever perceptive. 

“It’s okay, I guess,” he said. “I never used to drink the stuff. I’ve been trying to learn more about it lately, but…” He shrugged with one shoulder. “Still pretty much a beer guy, to be honest.” 

“Perhaps this would be more to your taste,” said Loki, and he conjured a large, elaborately-decorated stein, complete with levered metallic lid, and slid it carefully across the table to rest directly in front of Steve. 

The scene carved into the body of the vessel looked like something from a medieval tapestry, though more racy than anything Steve had seen at the Met: a naked man with soft, golden curls was reclining on a carpet of flowers, eating grapes, while a trio of horned animals— a bull, an ibex, and a stag— circled him, entwining his oversized erection with brightly colored ribbons as though it were a maypole. 

“Asgardian ale,” said Loki, when Steve just looked at it, speechless. 

“Uh, okay,” said Steve finally, leaning forward, depressing the lever that tipped up the lid, so that he could sniff at the liquid within. “Thanks,” he said. “I guess.” 

“Well,” said Loki then, placing his hands on his knees before pushing up from his seat, “I believe I shall withdraw, if you’ve no more need of me. Rest a bit for the morrow.” 

He felt uncharacteristically awkward, uncertain where he stood with these humans who were not, he imagined, strictly his enemies at this point— though certainly they were not friends. Did he even know of a creature in the wide breadth of the Universe whom he could yet truly call _friend_? 

Had he ever? 

He watched a moment as they quietly refueled on the provisions he’d provided, sharing them politely amongst one another with gestures more than words, none of them taking much notice of him as he stood there, lost in thought in the flickering light of the hearth. 

Darcy was still scribbling madly on the sheet of paper, and finally she paused, looking up at him. “Can I hang onto this a little longer?” she asked. “It’s not gonna, like, vanish into thin air when you go, is it?” 

He smiled a bit as he shook his head. “It is quite solid, and will remain so until I choose to reconvey it. I shall return to fetch it on the morrow. Please, make use of it as you will.” 

He’d meant to leave it at that, but then he hesitated, and ventured to say, almost shyly, “I… appreciate your devotion to the task.” 

“Cool beans,” she said, barely glancing up, and then she went back to work without further comment. 

“Well, then,” he said, feeling as though he were repeating himself, stalling for he knew not what. “I bid you well rest, and shall see you after first light.” He sketched a quick bow, out of habit, though none of them were even looking, and then, in a brief burst of golden light, teleported away. 

“Jeez,” said Steve, exhaling roughly, as he leaned forward to sniff at the beer again. “Thought he’d never leave. Glad you asked for the food, though.” He lowered the lid on the beer again, still too chicken to try it. He ripped off a hunk of bread instead, and made a little sandwich out of it, stuffing it with slices of the meat and cheese. 

Darcy stifled a big yawn as she finished another furious blob of writing, and Bucky turned to her, resting his prosthetic hand on her back. 

“You almost done with that?” he asked. “You should probably try to get some sleep— I know you gotta be tired, and we don’t know what’s gonna happen tomorrow.” 

She was reading over the ragged, sloppy script— barely legible to anyone but her, though Bucky had gotten better at it over the years— and she sighed and set the pen down, shaking out her wrist. 

“Yeah, I’m gonna go lie down soon,” she said. “I wanna take a shower first, though. I feel disgusting.” She was staring blankly at the paper, no longer really seeing the words that filled it, and then she seemed to get a sudden thought. 

Setting the scribbled-on paper aside, she lifted the lid on the desk and pulled out a fresh sheet. She picked up the pen and quickly jotted down a few more notes, and then swiftly folded the paper in half, then in quarters, and finally into eighths, making a tidy little packet. She moved the lap desk onto the table, stood, and stuck the folded-up paper into the front pocket of her jeans. 

“Okay, then,” she said, as she stepped around the coffee table and headed toward the bathroom. “Wish me luck. If I start screaming because my flesh is melting off, someone come save me, okay?” 

“You want me to go with you?” Bucky asked, pausing in his work slicing up an apple. Steve had finally dared to take a sip of the Asgardian ale, and when his eyebrows registered surprise— apparently approving of the flavor, or maybe the potency— he took a bigger sip. 

“Nah,” said Darcy, pausing as she reached the open doorway to the bathroom. “Better not risk it, unless it’s an actual emergency. I’m guessing that seeing each other in the buff is a big no-no on this stupid planet… not without a ring on my finger, anyway… or whatever they do, to seal the deal here.” 

She hesitated, considering. “Uh… better keep Steve-O occupied, though, or he’s gonna get quite the eyeful,” she said, realizing that with no way to close the slab-door— not without getting trapped inside until Loki returned— she wasn’t going to have much privacy. 

“I’m not gonna look,” said Steve, shifting his big body sideways as he picked up the heavy stein again. “Just gonna sit here and drink this ale and hope it’s not some kinda poison. Go ahead and clean up, Darce.” 

“You really think it’s a good idea to drink that?” asked Bucky, nodding to the stein warily as Steve levered up the lid again. 

“You drank the wine,” said Steve defensively. “Anyway, why not? We’re trapped on this fucked-up alien world with no way to get back, unless Loki Odinson, of all people, sees fit to take us home. How much worse could it get?” 

“You did _not_ just say that,” said Bucky, and then raised his voice so that Darcy could hear him in the bathroom. “Call out if you need me, sweetheart!” He handed Steve a thick slice of apple and muttered, “You better not’ve just fuckin’ jinxed us.” 

Darcy could hear Bucky and Steve talking in low, murmured voices in the adjacent room, and she quickly kicked off her shoes, bending to tuck her dirty socks into them, and then peeled off the rest of her clothing, feeling chilly and exposed in the bright room, which, unlike the main room, seemed to have an artificial light source that was set to a _bet-you-never-knew-your-skin-could-look-this-bad_ level of brightness. 

It hurt her eyes, and she wished she’d asked Loki to dim it— she had little doubt he could’ve, even if it wasn’t a normal feature of the room: he seemed as comfortable manipulating matter as a master painter with pigment. He was truly a remarkable individual, and it made her sad that he’d made so many shitty choices. In a different reality— one where he _hadn’t_ selfishly participated in the needless deaths of hundreds of innocent people— she would have enjoyed having him as a friend. 

Thor had once implied, in a quiet conversation with Jane (Darcy hadn’t _meant_ to eavesdrop) that it was complicated— that there’d been other forces at work— someone or some _thing_ driving the madness that had gripped his brother over the course of those awful days, up to and during the Chitauri invasion. But he’d also conceded that Loki had shown ample lucidity— regret, even— in several key moments, and could have made another call… and for reasons Thor still struggled to understand— or perhaps, to accept— had chosen not to. As far as Darcy was concerned, those several key moments were deal-breakers until further notice. 

Now she stood in an alien bathroom on a nameless planet— Loki had never even bothered to tell them where they were— examining the collection of little glass vials he’d conjured for them: a rainbow of personal-care products spread out on a metallic shelf. They held what looked to be oils and lotions and perhaps perfumes, though it was impossible to tell for sure. 

She uncapped each of them, sniffing tentatively. There wasn’t anything that was obviously soap, either for skin or for hair; they all seemed to be after-care products. She supposed that if the cleaning chamber automatically sanitized the body, as Loki had claimed, then maybe such items weren’t even necessary. In any case, she was too cold to linger, and gave up her hopes to shampoo her hair. 

She stepped into the chamber, taking her dirty underpants with her, intending to do a test-clean of those as well, and pulled the glass-like door firmly shut behind her. With a bolstering thought of _here goes nothing_ , she hovered her finger over the illuminated circle that Loki had said would begin the cleaning cycle. He’d made it sound like a car-wash, and she supposed it basically was, going by his description, only without any giant rotating scrub-brushes. She took a deep breath, and let the pad of her finger touch the circle. The glow that lit it began to pulse. 

Nothing happened for a moment, giving her just enough time to panic and think of her joke about her flesh melting off— how did they even know this was safe for humans? What if the cleaning agents on this planet, not designed for human skin, really did burn her skin straight off her bones? 

And even if that didn’t happen, what about temperature control? Loki had enabled only three controls: wash, dry, and off. What if it was freezing? Or scalding? Before she could completely chicken out and flee from the chamber, the cycle suddenly began with a _hiss_ , the air filling with what felt like a dense mist, and she instinctively shut her eyes and held her breath, afraid to inhale it at first. 

After a few seconds of feeling its pleasant warmth, she cracked open one of her eyes and took a tentative sniff: it was odorless, was a perfect temperature to warm her skin, and seemed to have no ill-effects— no stinging or discomfort of any kind. It was like standing in a sauna, but without the heavy feeling of being pulled down by humidity. If anything, there was a sensation of perfect equilibrium in the air, as though equal parts moisture were being simultaneously added and removed. 

She remembered what Loki had said about waste being automatically cleared away, and dared to give it a try, feeling gross even as she did it (having never actually peed in the shower before), but it was just as he’d said— the pee never even made it as far as her leg; it was just… magicked away to who-knows-where, along with, she assumed, the dirt, sweat, and other contaminants on her body. 

Her mind suddenly flashed to the pee jar in the main room, the one she and Steve had used in desperation— it was still sitting there in the shadows of the corner, disgusting. _I gotta remember to dump that out._

Her hair was wet now, sticking to her cheeks, and she smoothed it back from her face, and then checked the dirty underpants, which were also soaked through with whatever the system was putting out, and she scrubbed the fabric against itself for good measure. She wondered how the technology— if that’s what it was— differentiated between filth or impurities, and other matter… If she had a scab, would the system remove it? 

Feeling like she was about as clean as she was going to get without any additional bath products, she gently touched the lit-up circle that was next-in-line on the panel, and the steam quickly dissipated, replaced by the feeling of being inside a full-body hair-dryer. Yup; she’d been right: it was _totally_ like the disinfectant lifts in Dr. Who, but with a nicer wash cycle, the gentle mist far preferable to the abrupt deluge the characters on the show had been subjected to. 

She was dried off in no time— underwear too, and now that she knew _that_ worked, she stopped the cycle with a press of the third button, stepped out of the chamber, and rummaged through her pile of dirty clothes. She emptied the pockets of her jeans— all she had was a single, wrapped, green-apple Jolly Rancher, and the folded-up piece of paper she’d stuck in there just before showering. She set the items on the shelf next to the vials, and then stepped back into the shower stall, repeating the entire process with her clothing piled on the floor inside, giving each item a little scrub while the mist was on. She was pretty sure this wasn’t how you were _supposed_ to wash clothing here, but whatever. 

When she finally stepped out of the bathroom, a good forty-five minutes later, barefoot and warm, she felt like a new person— possibly as fresh as she’d ever felt in her life. She was carrying her shoes and socks in her hands, her body clean and dry and mostly unscented, though she’d combed a palm-sized drizzle of oil through her long, wavy hair, the soft waves at the ends soaking it up greedily and turning into the lovely ringlets that Bucky still loved to play with. 

Putting her bra and stretch-jeans back on had been a drag, but she hadn’t wanted to traumatize Steve by walking around all loose and floppy, so she’d reluctantly re-dressed, minus the heavy sweatshirt— for now, the tank-top she’d had on underneath was plenty warm, while her core temperature was still elevated from the shower. 

Bucky looked up from where he’d been reading through the written notes she’d left on the coffee table. It turned out she could have foregone pants after all, because Steve was snoring loudly, sound asleep next to Bucky, his head tipped back ungracefully against the rolled crown of the couch. 

“How’d it go?” said Bucky quietly, and then added, “Beer knocked him out,” tilting his head toward Steve. Bucky, in contrast, seemed completely unaffected by the strong wine, even though he’d had about six cups of it. 

“You don’t think he poisoned him, do you?” whispered Darcy, concerned. 

“Nah,” said Bucky. “I tried a sip of it myself when I saw it was havin’ an effect on him. It’s just really strong.” 

“Aw,” she said quietly, smiling as she looked at Steve’s slack face. He was _out_. “Poor baby. Not surprised he’s so tired. He must have chopped and stacked at least four cords of wood after lunch.” 

Their long, lazy day at the cabin— waking early to start the stew, shoveling the drive in time for Steve’s mid-morning arrival, sending him out to chop wood while they’d snuck back to bed, and then the long slide into dinner, talking by the fire, and finally Scrabble… it all seemed so long ago, so far away… as though all of _that_ were the dream, and this the reality, instead of the reverse. Not that she really thought this was a dream any more. It’d been going on for too long. 

“Yeah,” said Bucky, setting the notes down. “That was a lot of wood, even for Steve.” He leaned back into the couch, his arms stretched out along the top edge, opening up his lap, his big thighs inviting her to come sit down. “I guess that was kinda underhanded, telling him we needed to get it all split and stacked before sundown…” 

“At least that part of it was _sort_ of true, if you ignore the ‘ _all of it_ ’ part,” said Darcy as she made her way around the coffee table, approaching him quietly, trying not to wake Steve. “But that fib about having to watch the stew? Being the reason you couldn’t help him? That was a bald-faced lie, James Buchanan Barnes. You’ve made that stew a million times, and I’ve never _once_ seen you needing to manage it any more than a poke and a stir every hour or so.” 

He grinned, not denying it, his eyes running up and down her body as she neared him. She leaned over carefully to set her shoes silently on the floor, dropped the sweatshirt on the table, and took another peek at Steve— he was still out cold. 

She bent her right leg, sinking her knee into the couch cushion next to Bucky’s thigh, and then did likewise on the opposite side, straddling him, and his hands came up to grab onto her hips, steadying her as she slid home, comfortably settling her ample, heart-shaped ass into his lap as she rested her hands against the soft blue shirt that covered his broad chest. 

“Couldn’t help it,” he said, keeping his voice low. “You’re the one needed a poke and a stir… you were still in those pajama pants, the ones that…” He trailed off, biting his lower lip. 

“Cling?” she whispered, helpfully, and smiled as she moved her hands up his body, skimmed the side of his face and tried to tuck his bangs behind his ears, and _God_ , it felt good to be able to touch him, finally, without Loki perving on them. 

“Yeah,” he said. “ _Cling_. And then you bent over to pick up all those spilled M&Ms on the floor, and I could tell you weren’t wearin’ any panties, and…” He grinned, and his hips ticked up a bit when she placed a careful kiss right at the top of his cheekbone, her lips brushing the edge of his ear. “Can’t blame a fella for…” 

She snickered, and he shushed her, his eyes flicking to the snoring man next to them as he licked his lips. “Careful,” he whispered. “Don’t wanna wake up the _chaperone_.” 

She giggled again, stifling it, trying to keep quiet. “Why do you think I ‘dropped’ all the M&Ms in the first place?” she said. “Conveniently right where you were reading the newspaper…” 

“You’re incorrigible,” he said, his lips falling open as he shut his eyes, leaning into the feeling of her fingers combing through his hair. 

“Couldn’t help it,” she said, echoing his earlier statement. “When Steve got there, it was like I was seventeen again, trying to figure out how to get away from my mom’s watchful eye, to sneak out for a booty call…” 

“Oh yeah?” he said, his eyes still shut, just enjoying her touch. “You did a lotta sneakin’ around, huh?” 

“Let’s just say there was a lot of sex in cars, sex in parks, sex in… yeah.” 

He grinned again, mouth still open, and then pulled her a little more into his body, slotting their crotches together, and she sighed at the familiar comfort of his big hands— both flesh and prosthetic— sliding down her back on either side of her spine, the flesh hand warm through the light fabric of her tank top. 

The new prosthetic design felt almost like a real hand, but the difference in temperature was a dead giveaway. It was something she could have easily worked into the design— temperature control— if there’d been any true need for it, but there was nothing in his current life that required him to fool anybody, and she’d confessed to him that she actually liked the difference… that it was just so… him. 

“I was pretty stupid back then,” she said, still talking about her clandestine high-school hookups. “It’s a miracle I didn’t get knocked up.” And _dammit_ , she shouldn’t have said that, because there it was— that tiny little tell, as his lazy smile slipped just a fraction, at the reminder that she did indeed have a womb, which apparently was never going to be filled— not then, and certainly not now— not without some creative intervention. 

They were both trying _so_ hard to pretend that it was no big deal that her mid-thirties were upon her, and that her years of reproductive potential were rapidly approaching the ‘ticking clock’ stage. 

For a long time she hadn’t been completely sure she even _wanted_ … but it was different now, had been for some time. She now knew that she _did_ — she _wanted_ — as did he. But with six years of frequent, unprotected sex in their history, it was pretty obvious that Hydra really had achieved their goal in wiping out that possibility for him, just as he’d disclosed all those years ago… perhaps as a warning— he knowing better than she did, at the time, that it could some day come to this: an ache for a future that could never be. 

They both would have been totally on board with adoption, but it was pretty clear that wasn’t going to be a possibility either— not with his history, nor with his ongoing challenges— even though Bucky Barnes would make a hell of a good father, even with his lingering nightmares, occasional bouts of panic— which Darcy was no stranger to herself— and the odd dissociative episode. The most important criterion, as far as Darcy was concerned, was that he actually _wanted_ the job, which was more than she could say for the majority of dads she’d observed growing up, including her own. 

They hadn’t talked openly about donor sperm yet, but the conversation was looming there, waiting for the right moment. She’d have loved for that honor to go to Steve— unable to think of anyone with whom she’d wish more to make a whole new person, if it couldn’t be Bucky— but the Vita-Rays, or some other aspect of the process of turning him into Captain America, had apparently rendered him sterile as well, a sad truth she’d only found out by accident, having overheard a conversation between him and Bucky, who’d evidently been putting out feelers of his own… 

In the meantime, biological clocks were something they were pretending didn’t exist— they were quietly, irrationally waiting for something… some eleventh-hour angel to descend and assure them of the right course… 

Now, he tipped his head forward, hiding his expression from her as he sighed and breathed in the scent on her neck. “Mmm,” he rumbled, nuzzling into her skin. “You smell good.” 

She was running little kisses along his brow as her fingernails scraped gently against his scalp, smoothing his hair back, and then she dipped a little lower to brush against his eyelids, which fluttered shut again at the light touch of her lips. 

“I have no idea what the hell I rubbed into my hair,” she admitted. “It smells sorta like scented almond oil, but for all I know it could be some kinda weird animal gland excretion…” 

It was a totally un-sexy thing to say, but the unknown provenance of the oil didn’t disturb him at all— he pulled in a deep breath through his nose as her lips wandered lower, back down his cheekbone to rub against his scruff, and then feathered at the edges of his mouth, her hands framing his jaw now, tipping his face up, teasing him a bit as his lips parted. His hips pushed up again, pressing the beginnings of an erection into the warmth of her center, where she was already aching for him beneath the layers of fabric. 

“Whatever it is, I like it,” he said, his voice low as he curled his fingers more tightly into the denim covering her hips. 

“Maybe it’s an aphrodisiac,” she joked, grinding down against him and then canted her hips, sliding back up, feeling the thickening outline of him through his jeans, and then smirked. “Seems to be having an effect.” 

“Nah,” he said, and he moved his flesh hand up from her hip to her breast, squeezing gently as his thumb brushed over the nipple he could feel hardening, even through her clothing. “S’just you,” he said. “Don’t need nothin’ extra.” 

Her breath was picking up, and she was rocking in his lap, and she was going to make a mess of her underpants again, and her eyelids drooped, heavy, as his head nudged up beneath her jaw so that he could kiss her neck, his breath hot on her skin as his hand dipped under the hem of her tank top. 

He pulled down on the cup of her bra, freeing the breast so he could give it proper attention, and she vocalized an exhale as the rough pad of his thumb skimmed across her bare nipple, and she rocked against him again, dragging against him slowly, torturing them both, and he was very hard now, and he made a sound into her mouth as he kissed her, his tongue still tasting of the sweet wine… 

She reached down and started to fumble at his belt buckle, pondering how far they could get away with taking this, when suddenly Steve sucked in a deep breath, his head falling forward with a startled jerk as he woke, and he opened his eyes and blinked, looking around in confusion. 

“What? Wha—” His face fell into a look of familiar exasperation as he took in their position right next to him on the couch, Bucky’s hand still under her shirt, their cores slotted tightly together like a couple of jigsaw-puzzle pieces, molded to each other as much as possible with the layers of denim in between. They probably already stank of it, the heavy musk of sex just waiting there, ready… interrupted. 

“Goddammit, you guys,” he said, pushing his body away from them. He was too weary to bother standing up, so he just pressed himself deeper into the arm of the couch, leaning over and rubbing at his forehead tiredly. “I mean, it’s bad enough when you do this shit back home, but seriously? Much as I hate to say it, I think we gotta listen to Loki. There could be consequences for this kinda… behavior.” 

Bucky reluctantly withdrew his hand, taking a moment to help rearrange her under her tank top, and then she slid out of his lap and onto the couch on his other side, breathing out a deep sigh of sexual disappointment as Bucky lifted his hips a little and adjusted himself in his pants. 

They were all silent for minute, staring blankly ahead, and then Bucky finally spoke up, his voice carefully nonchalant. “Guess I’ll go take a shower, then,” he said, and he pressed his lips together, trying not laugh. 

“Yeah,” said Steve, huffing out a breath, with a little humor this time. “You go do that.” 

“It’s actually really nice in there,” said Darcy. “You should try it out too,” she said to Steve, but he didn’t answer, stuck in a long, drawn-out yawn. 

“I, uh… I guess I’ll go try to get some sleep in the other room,” she said, and she stood up and stretched, arching her back as she twisted from one side to the other, before slumping again with an exhale, and then headed over to the other open doorway. “You sure you guys are okay to sleep in here?” she asked, pausing to look back at them. “I feel bad, hogging the only real bed.” 

“S’okay,” said Steve. “I think we better go by their rules. Anyway, we’ve both slept in way worse places than this. Don’t worry about it.” 

“All right then,” she said, knowing he meant it. “Well. Wake me up, if you wake up first.” 

“Same,” said Steve. 

Bucky stood and followed her as far as the doorway, and he leaned into the jamb, his prosthetic hand braced against it up high. When she turned and smiled up at him, he leaned down, pulling her face to him with his other hand, and gave her a slow, sweet kiss, ending with a brush of her cheek with his fingers. 

He was looking at her in that sweet way he tended to do— even after six years— like he didn’t know what he’d done to deserve to feel good, but he wasn’t about to argue with it. He brushed back a lock of her hair and then reeled it back in, looping his finger in the curl, and his face broke into a soft smile. “Feel like I’m bringin’ you home after a date… stallin’, hopin’ you’ll invite me in.” 

“You know I would, if I could,” she said, smiling as she fiddled with one of the buttons on his shirt. 

“I kinda like it,” he said, as he released the coil of hair from his finger. “Reminds me what it feels like… that anticipation…” 

“Oh yeah?” she said, grinning as she looked up at him. “Maybe we should play around with that… when we get back. I mean, we never really… did that, did we.” 

“You askin’ me out on a date?” he said, looking down at her with a half-smirk and heavy eyes. 

“Maybe,” she said, and it was kind of crazy, but she was feeling it too— the warm _zing_ of anticipation, of wanting more, but having to stop… and God, it was a sweet kind of pain, different from the typical _aw dammit, my period came early_ kind of interruption to their activities… this was heady, like a recapturing of little hints of those early days: that feeling of charged longing… vulnerability mixed with raw desire… 

If nothing else, at least this planet had granted them this: a certainty of that flavor, that it still resided within… the original, exquisite electricity remained, as potent as ever… rustling and coiled inside them… restless, waiting, _wanting_ … 

She stretched up on her tippy-toes to get another kiss, and she licked her lips after, pulling his taste in, and whispered, “See you tomorrow. Or today. Whatever it is. Don’t let me sleep too late.” 

She was turning and then swiveled back, and he hadn’t moved a muscle, still leaning there in the doorway exactly as before, as she took a breath to voice the thought that had popped into her head: “You should probably take your arm off, in the shower thing. We don’t know what that stuff could do to the circuitry.” 

“Kay,” he said, and he smiled at her, and she smiled back, feeling silly and flirty and young, almost like she’d been drinking, though she’d only had a drop of the wine, and she could feel him still watching her as she turned and headed over to the big, alien, four-poster bed. She looked back at him as she reached it, wishing he could join her, but knowing, as Loki had said, that it wasn’t worth the risk. He gave her a last, sleepy smile and mouthed, “Night, doll,” and then he finally straightened up and turned away. 

“Go ahead and take the couch,” she could hear him murmuring to Steve in the other room, as she yawned and pulled back the covers. The bed was made up with more of the thick blankets and furs like the ones they’d spread out by the hearth, and she tugged them down, climbed in, and burrowed inside. After only a couple of seconds she threw them off again, and quickly unzipped and shucked off the tight stretch-jeans, and then sat up to unhook and remove her bra, leaving her far more comfortable in just her tank top and underwear. 

She’d planned on quietly using her hand to release some of the built-up tension they’d created, but the stress and exhaustion of it all finally caught up with her again, and she was out like a light in less than a minute, her fingers resting lightly on top of her underpants, not even making it to her own third base.


	8. Chapter 8

They were all up— showered and dressed— just a few hours later. In spite of their exhaustion, none of them had been able to sleep well— not with the anxiety of not knowing what time it was, nor what to expect. Without any windows, it was impossible to tell whether it was even night or day. Of the three of them, Bucky had the best instinct for time, developed over untold hours spent hunkered down in a sniper’s hide site, and he sensed it had to have been getting on to midday by now, judging by what few clues Loki had left them. 

They’d eaten the rest of the alien fruits and the provisions that Loki had provided, and now they were taking turns pacing nervously around the room, unable to leave, nothing to do but wait. Darcy used the time to go over her notes again, and to finally dump the disgusting jug of pee. 

She left the clean, empty vessel on the floor of the mist chamber, unwilling to return it to the shelf with the other cups and plates, even though it’d presumably been sanitized. 

She recalled a time, when she was very young and her dad was still living with them, that she and her mother had discovered a frying pan that the cat had puked in, right on top of the stove, where they’d left the pan that morning. Her mother had seen it as fortuitous that the puke had all landed neatly in the pan— making for easier cleanup, which she'd then cheerfully attended to— but had whispered conspiratorially to Darcy, “ _Don’t tell your father_.” 

Though Darcy had nodded, understanding the concept of ‘what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,’ and enjoyed the feeling of being trusted with a secret, she could nevertheless feel herself sympathizing with her father’s attitude, which, had he known, would have been along the lines of, ‘ _Well this pan is ruined— it can never be clean— we’ll just have to throw it away_.’ 

This was how Darcy now felt about the drinking jug. It would forever hold the memory of pee, its atoms corrupt for all time. 

“He did say he was coming back, right?” she said now, wondering where the heck Loki was. As much as they were understandably wary of him, he was still their only ticket off this planet, and their only source of information. Not knowing where he was, or what was going on, was not a good feeling. 

The lap desk, along with the unused paper and the pen, had been gone by the time they’d awoken, and they could only assume he’d paid them a visit to retrieve it, when they’d all still been asleep. Even so, he’d distinctly implied that he’d be seeing them in the morning. So where was he? He’d left the page of written notes for her on the coffee table in plain sight. The other, secret, folded-up piece of paper was still in her jeans pocket, so she assumed he didn’t know about it. 

Steve turned, putting his hands on his hips. “Maybe we should—” 

Whatever Steve had been about to say was interrupted by a loud banging upon the heavy wooden doors that led to the front courtyard. 

They all froze a second, and then Steve put a hand out, indicating that Darcy should hang back, as he and Bucky approached the double doors. Steve looked once at Bucky, who nodded to him, ready, and then Steve slid the heavy black bolt out of the latch and pulled open the doors, revealing a trio of guards who looked exactly like the ones who’d escorted them into town the day before. It could have been the same three, or an entirely different group. They all looked exactly alike, and they all had the same, long spears. 

Darcy had actually begun to wonder if they were clones, but now that she looked more closely, she was beginning to see some very slight differences in height and in the exact shapes of their noses and lips. Maybe she was just some kind of space-bigot, unable to see how unique they were, only noticing how much they resembled one another, in their basic differences from human beings. 

The guard in the center nodded to them politely, and then said, “If the lady is prepared to testify, I would be honored to escort your party to the Hall of Rectitude.” 

“Where’s Lo— uh… where’s Tolkir?” said Darcy, and then frowned, wondering why the language spell was still working, when Loki was nowhere nearby. Apparently it had a long reach, or perhaps the effect was simply long-lasting. 

“He was taken to the Hall for the preliminary proceedings some time ago. You need not concern yourself with him.” 

“Uh, okay,” said Darcy, and wiped her hands on her pants, a nervous gesture. She looked around, feeling naked without a handbag or backpack, realizing that none of them had any personal items, other than Bucky’s concealed knives. 

“Just a sec,” she said, leaning over to grab the page of notes off the table, and then strode over to the fireplace and tossed it in, watching as it quickly caught the flame and then collapsed in on itself, dissolving into ash. 

“Okay,” she said, turning back to the guards, who were waiting politely. “I’m ready to go.” 

<<>>

“Holy cow,” breathed Bucky, as he looked up at the sky, shielding his eyes from the brightness, as the twin suns neared their midday position, high overhead. He’d carefully avoided revealing his awe of the aliens’ figures and features, but the sheer, breathtaking impact of the foreign heavens above was beyond his ability to contain. 

“Right?” said Steve, elbowing his friend, and then quickly hissed, “Don’t touch her,” as Bucky began to instinctively reach for Darcy’s hand. “The guards know you’re, uh… that she’s your mate— well, at least yesterday’s guards did— but you can’t be that familiar with her on the streets. Or anywhere, really, from what I gather.” 

“This way,” said the head guard, and then set off, leading them at a brisk pace through the city streets, passing by dozens of the bisecting pathways like the one they’d come from— everything, as always, the same, drab, grey. 

Bucky continued to glance up at the sky, even as he tactically scanned all of their surroundings; but even with attending to his instincts— which always leaned toward paranoid— and the gloom of the ever-present grey around them, he was nevertheless like a child seeing the Magic Kingdom at Disney World for the first time: so entranced to be stepping through a real-live alien city, on a real-live alien world. 

He looked over to Darcy once, lit up with a grin that hinted at the boy he’d once been, and she couldn’t help but smile back at him, feeling his exhilaration like a visceral link that bound him to her, clasping her hand in spirit, even if he couldn’t in the flesh. 

That spark of youthful delight was such a rare and wonderful ornament on his face— which otherwise ever held at least a hint of the wounds he carried within, if you knew where to look— and seeing him so unguarded, so rapt with wonder, even if it was to be short-lived, was something she wanted to hold onto… wanted to keep in her memory… 

But this was no pleasure cruise, no space-vacation with snapshots and souvenirs and other ways to wrap up that joy and take it home, for remembrance. It was a dangerous errand for a dangerous being, and one that they were ultimately fated to forget… 

At last the street ended at a large, open area— circular, with tall, grey-brick buildings bordering all around, steps leading up to each like spokes of an enormous wheel, with another of the large fountains acting as a prominent hub at the center. The guards led them past the fountain and toward a particularly ornate structure that screamed ‘government’, and could only be reached by ascending hundreds of the smooth, grey steps. 

“Please tell me we don’t have to climb all of those,” said Darcy, taking in the length of the wide stairway. She hadn’t meant to say it loudly enough for the aliens to hear, but the lead guard turned and angled his head politely in acknowledgement. 

“Yes, my lady. They await us in the central chamber of the Hall of Rectitude. We will go there now.” 

“Great,” she muttered, under her breath, and Bucky again resisted the urge to grab her hand, or even just scoop her up and carry her. 

The risers of the steps were slightly higher than typical for humans, and the treads slightly wider, which made the climb even more arduous for Darcy’s short legs, and by the time they reached the top and stood before the imposing front doors of the building, she was almost bending over double, completely out of breath, her legs quivering and burning. 

“You all right?” asked Bucky, gently setting a hand on her heaving back, at which the guards faltered and huffed— obviously shocked and embarrassed— and he quickly retracted it, but stayed close by her side, clearly communicating his right to defend her. 

“Sorry,” said Steve, instinctively putting a hand out to calm them. “He, uh… it was an easy way for him to ascertain her physical condition,” he added, hoping it was a suitable explanation. “Won’t happen again.” 

“See that it doesn’t,” said the lead guard sharply, looking between the three of them, and then turned back to the doors, while Steve shot Bucky a warning look. 

Darcy straightened up, swallowing as she caught her breath. “I’m okay,” she said to Bucky, trying to reassure him. “Just embarrassingly out of shape. I guess I should start riding the bike again, huh?” 

The front doors to the building were massive wooden rectangles with decorative swirls of stamped silver metal, and another set of guards stood sentry on either side. The escorting guards nodded to the sentries, who acknowledged them and moved to open the doors for their group, unlatching and then pushing them to swing inward. 

The inside was more of what they’d come to expect: a whole lot of grey. Grey tile floor, grey walls, high vaulted ceiling—also grey. Remembering what Loki had said earlier— his implication that what they were seeing was somehow inaccurate— Darcy decided to take a gamble, and made a show of sucking in an impressed breath as she looked up and around the grand hallway. “Wow,” she said, loudly. “This is… beautiful.” 

Steve gave her a warning look, like, ‘ _What are you doing_ ,’ but the lead guard turned, acknowledging her comment, with an undeniably pleased expression on his otherwise stern face. “Thank you for saying so, my lady,” he said, with a little bow of his head. “We are quite proud of the craftsmanship in the Halls. The frescoes here are among our national treasures.” 

Bucky looked up and around as well, raising his eyebrows, and didn’t say a word, but as soon as the guard turned his back to them again, he grinned and gave Darcy some kind of look that made her bite her lip as she tried not to laugh, while Steve shot them both one of his ‘ _knock it off_ ’ glares. 

The wide hall ended at a T-intersection, with slightly narrower corridors branching off to the left and right. Another set of large double doors blocked the way forward, and a fresh pair of identical-looking soldiers stood guard on either side, staring straight ahead as they gripped their spears. 

The leader of their escort tapped the butt of his spear on the ground as they stopped, in a manner that suggested an air of formality, and spoke in a loud, clear voice: “We bring the Outsider who claims to speak for the Asgardian. We would seek entrance to the Chamber.” 

The doormen answered with their own spears, tapping their ends firmly on the ground, and one of them held his free wrist to his ear for a moment, and then said, “It is acceptable. Proceed and take your places.” He and his partner moved to open the doors, granting them entrance. 

It was a decent-sized room, with high ceilings and tall, arched windows lining the side walls, letting in the bright, rose-tinted light of the alien sky. The main floor of the room was divided into halves, each side filled with curving rows of seats, reminiscent of a legislative chamber. 

All of the seats were filled— perhaps a hundred individuals, all facing the front, where three large, imposing, executive-style desks stretched across the width of the room. Their front-pieces extended to the floor, concealing the aliens seated behind them from mid-chest down. There were three behind each of the two side-desks, while the centermost desk was slightly raised above the others, and seated a sole individual— presumably the judge, or whatever he was called in this culture; he was definitely older than the other aliens she’d seen, and a little jowly, and looked like he needed a nap. 

There was something creepy about the assemblage, and Darcy couldn’t put her finger on it right away, because the entire experience had been pretty creepy thus far— it wasn’t like any one thing was standing out more than another. But as her eyes moved subtly over the spectators who were watching them with open curiosity, it finally hit her: every single person in the room was male— spectators, guards, panel members, judge— all of them. 

As they followed their escort down the central aisle to the front of the room, Darcy began to feel the first real stirrings of serious anxiety, and wondered just what in the actual fuck she’d gotten herself into. _Just be polite_ , she reminded herself, recalling how favorably the lead guard had responded to her compliment. _Polite, and restrained. No F-bombs_. 

She was still in her _Wake up and Smell the Disappointment_ sweatshirt, and wished she’d had something nicer to wear, or that Loki would have thought to do one of his little matter-reorganizing things to _her_ clothing, as he’d done for his own. Hopefully she wasn’t going to horribly offend anyone with her attire. With no other females in sight, she had no frame of reference for what was appropriate or expected of her gender. 

Loki had to have _some_ idea, having interacted with at least one female, and she found herself irritated that he hadn’t given her any advice on that front. She tried to take it as a good sign: as narcissistic as he apparently was, she doubted he’d have knowingly acted in a way that would damage his own chances for a favorable outcome. 

There was a wide, open area between the spectator seating and the desks for the officials at the front, and she could see him— ‘Tolkir’— standing there to the side, his hands clasped together loosely in front of his crotch. His eyes flicked briefly to hers as their group continued up the aisle, but he made no further attempt to acknowledge her. 

Having reached the end of the aisle, their escort stopped abruptly, and the lead guard did the thing with the spear again— tapping the butt of it on the floor like a call to attention— and announced, “We present the honored witness and her guard.” Then he bowed briefly to the judge and immediately withdrew, along with his two sidekicks, leaving Darcy and Bucky and Steve standing there, unsure what to do next. 

There were several low, narrow, lightly-cushioned banquettes before them, parallel to the desks— they looked like the things you’d kneel on in a church. Nobody made any sign that they should make use of them, so they all remained standing, waiting for instruction, bathed in the penetrating glare of the alien judiciary. 

The judge glanced down at some papers on his desk and then looked first to ‘Tolkir’, and then to Darcy. He seemed to stifle a yawn, his eyes watering a little, and then looked through the papers again. He was wearing a velvety, deep-blue robe with a high, sparkly-silver collar that would have looked good on Elvis during his Vegas years, and would have made Darcy chortle inside if she hadn't been so nervous, because it was a lot of look for such a dour fellow— like an alien Orrin Hatch, channeling Liberace… 

Darcy shifted uncomfortably, still painfully aware that she was the only female in the room; she had the sudden feeling that she had about as much power in this culture as Hester Prynne had enjoyed among her disapproving Puritan neighbors. She was bowled over by a nauseating relief that she was not the one on trial, and prayed to Thor she could keep her tongue reined in long enough to stay out of trouble. 

The judge had looked up again, staring at them one by one with his freaky huge pupils, and she was getting even more antsy, fearful that perhaps they were all waiting for them to sit, or kneel, or speak, or _something_ and she wished someone would just tell them what to do. 

Finally, the judge cleared his throat and spoke in a voice that was commanding, if tired; somewhat scratchy but pleasant— sort of a Morgan Freeman, without the hint of Southern twang. 

“You may now approach,” he said with a nod, speaking directly to Darcy. 

She still had no idea where to go, so she just stepped forward a couple of feet and then raised an eyebrow. “Is this okay?” she said. 

“Acceptable,” said the judge, and paused before speaking again. “You are… female?” he asked, and his tone told her that he knew the answer, but was surprised to believe it. 

“I am,” she said, trying very hard not to be offended. 

There was a bit of rumbling and whispers among the panel members, leaning toward one another to trade reactions to her words. 

The judge was staring at her sweatshirt now, and she again wondered whether the printing on it was being translated by Loki’s spell. His brow was crinkled a bit, as though he were puzzled. One of the other panel members passed a piece of paper down the row to him, and he broke off his scrutinizing of her clothing to read the paper. He turned to address whichever panel-member had written the note. 

“It is acceptable for now,” he said, and a least of few of the alien officials seemed to shift uncomfortably, offended by something. Darcy guessed they'd been bending the rules on something, pending confirmation of her gender. She re-evaluated the judge slightly, as his comment seemed to suggest a bit more wiggle-room in his thinking than some of the other councilmen; she wished she could confirm it, so that she might know how to better play the panel. 

“We understand,” the judge said, before she had a chance to ask, “that you have testimony to offer in the matter between one Tolkir of Asgard, and one of our citizens— the honorable Am’a Eechor.” 

“Yes,” she said, glancing over to Loki, and then shifted her feet nervously and added, “I’m, uh, honored to be here, and to speak.” 

The judge nodded and seemed to relax just a fraction at her words, and she patted herself on the back for her apparent success in decorum. 

“Bring them in,” croaked the judge, looking to his left, and everyone else looked that way too, except for Loki, who remained stone-faced and unmoving. There was a side door to the panel’s left, beyond the row of desks, flanked by another generic pair of guards, who tapped their spears and then pulled open the doors and stepped back. 

A disdainful-looking male alien came through the doors first. He was much like the judge— similar in appearance to all the males, if slightly older, but more extravagantly dressed: he wore floor-length loose robes in deep purple, with silver edging that caught the light, and gold flat-soled slippers that peeked out from beneath the wide hem of his robe. His clothing, his cool manner, and the way the guards quickly made way as he stepped through the double doors suggested a man of some standing in the community. 

He was followed by a petite alien— still taller than Darcy, but certainly shorter than any alien she’d seen thus far— meekly shadowing the snooty-looking guy, head bowed. When Darcy finally got a good look at her— the first female alien she’d seen— she had to hide her surprise at how very different she appeared from the males. 

Her skin, unlike the golden-brown hue of the males, had a rosy cast to it, like pink grapes, most of it hidden in the drape of a silky silver floor-length robe that rippled like water as she moved. Her hair was a shiny, dense black, like onyx, and was pulled severely back from her face, bound tightly into a thick rope of a braid that hung straight down her back, reaching almost to the ground. 

She had the same pink eyes as the males, with large black pupils, but where the men lacked eyelashes or eyebrows, the woman’s eyes were framed with what looked like outlandish novelty press-on eyelashes made of black feathers. Her perfect lips were outlined carefully in black, the plump flesh of them filled in a sparkling azure blue. 

She was ethereally and stunningly beautiful— more like a doll than a living creature— and Darcy had trouble imagining her as the same person in Loki’s story, snatching his bag and playfully running off through the wood. As she glided into the room behind her father, Darcy shifted uneasily, feeling like some kind of proto-human girl-beast in her dumpy sweatshirt and dirty sneakers. 

If Darcy hadn’t been openly staring at her, she would have missed the way the woman’s eyes dared to peek at Loki, though she quickly returned to her subdued and subservient mien, staring at the floor as she passed by him with tiny, silent steps. 

The duo filed unhurriedly past the three humans, the father not bothering to so much as glance in their direction, while his fairy-like daughter followed behind him like a servant. He came to a stop at the opposite end of the open area, and faced the panel of officials, and then turned his head to the side, nodding something in communication to his daughter, as though conferring permission to move while he stood still. 

She nodded in acknowledgment, and then moved to stand in front of him, where one of the low, cushioned banquettes waited. She kneeled carefully upon it, arranging her silver gown so that it pooled about her body like a tent. 

Darcy wondered if the kneeling was on account of her gender— and whether it was what the disgruntled councilmen had wanted Darcy to do. Being the only other female in the room, the implication made her uncomfortable, and even less confident about how to behave among all these stern-faced men with unknown magical powers. Nobody had directed her to kneel— yet— and she hoped she wouldn’t have to. 

_Polite_ , she reminded herself again. _Just be polite. No matter how much it grates_. 

The judge had waited patiently while the woman was settling herself into position on the kneeler, and, once she was completely still, he cleared his throat again and turned to look directly into Darcy’s eyes. 

“Outsider,” he said, and she knew the word was translating through Loki’s magic, but wondered what these aliens called Earthlings in their own tongue, or if they had a name for the Earth— or even knew of it. “You may now speak.” 

“Oh,” she said. “Uh, okay.” _Steady, there_. Her voice sounded small and stupid in the big room, with all the aliens staring at her, and she squirmed under their scrutiny. _What the fuck do I say?_ She could feel the presence of Bucky and Steve, slightly behind her and to each side, and tried to draw strength from them, from her knowledge that they would defend both her words and her person. She took a breath, steadying herself. “Um… what would you like to know?” 

The judge was staring at her, unblinking, as were the other six members of the panel, and her heart was starting to pound, her palms sweating. She resisted the urge to wipe them on her jeans. 

“You would relate to us how you came to know the Asgardian,” he said. And then you would tell us why he deserves to be restored, after the way he has dishonored the citizen Am’a Eechor.” 

“Okay,” she said, shifting uneasily in her sneakers. “No problem.” She was thinking back to her notes, to the words Loki had suggested she use to describe the encounter. “So first of all, the way I met him was, we were both kidnaped by some kind of… entities that were doing science on the, uh… rituals? Of various species from all over the galaxy, or multiple galaxies, I guess. I’m not too solid on the science or whatnot. We were, uh… taken up with all these other innocent creatures, and then we were paired up into groups of two, and then we had to… um…” She paused and then completed the sentence. “Mate.” 

She’d said the last word with a grimace, dreading the reaction it’d get— she and Loki had argued about how much to disclose, but there was no way to relate the encounter without revealing the basic purpose of it. Darcy was such a shit liar that she felt it best to tell some version of the truth, else quickly get tripped up in a tangle of flimsy falsehoods. 

Sure enough, there was an immediate audible response from all over the room, ranging from sharp intakes of breath from the panel, to a more general rumble behind them. After a few seconds the guards began to stamp their spears upon the floor, calling for order. 

There was silence for a good minute, while the judge frowned and pressed his lips together and breathed loudly through his nose, as he seemed to try to formulate a response. Finally he took a deep breath and said, “I am greatly aggrieved to hear of this, and… regret your having to so… openly disclose…” 

He sighed and then clasped his hands together upon the surface of his desk. “We know of these… unfortunate occurrences,” he said. “Some of our own people have… survived such tragic misfortune, and sadly must be withdrawn, as there is no way to… formally bind them…” 

“I see,” said Darcy, trying to remain completely calm, afraid of what he’d meant by ‘ _withdrawn’_. 

The father had turned to stare openly at her, a look of consternation on his face, and spoke to her with clear disgust. “You are… _bound_ to the Asgardian?” 

“No!” said Darcy, her tone clearly one of protest. It was an instinctive response, and though it was truthful, she had no idea whether the assertion was going to make things better or worse, for any of them. Loki hadn’t prepped her for this. They’d spent all of their time going over the abduction story, and Loki’s exemplary character, and how to tastefully relate it to the aliens. 

In any case, both she and the father had clearly spoken out of turn, because the judge made a hissing noise, and the father immediately bowed his head deferentially, but then raised it again and barreled on: “Forgive me, Magistrate… but I feel we must establish— that is to say… how can she be trusted to speak the truth? If she be not bound…” 

“I’m bound to _him_ ,” said Darcy, interrupting, and thumbed her hand toward Bucky, who had moved slightly up to stand just behind her, to the right. She could practically feel him vibrating— tense… ready. 

There was more sucking in of breath all around, as eyes moved to Bucky, and the judge said, “What?!?” He was clearly affronted, and Darcy glanced nervously over to Loki, who’d shut his eyes and seemed to be holding his breath. When he opened them, he wouldn’t look at her, but his face said it all: _Now we’re in for it_. 

She opened her mouth, taking a breath to speak again, wanting to explain, but before she could say a word, the judge raised a hand as if to say, ‘ _A moment please_ ,’ and then dropped his elbow to the desktop, pinching his forehead between his fingertips, in a very Earth-like expression of mental fatigue. The chamber was silent, everyone waiting. 

“Let us take it one step at a time,” he finally said— slowly, carefully… as though speaking to a child. “You encountered the Asgardian as part of a forced mating—” 

“Yes, but—” she started to interrupt, and he put his hand up again with a loud _tsk_ , silencing her. She had the impression that he was being exceedingly patient with her. 

“Yes or no,” he continued. “Whether by force or by… _choice_ —” He said the word as though it were offensive— “You…” He stopped and shut his eyes for a second, taking a breath before opening them again. “Forgive me, but— you are bound to another, yet you admit to having lain with the Asgardian.” 

“Uh, that would be a _yes_ ,” she said, her eyes flicking to Loki for a second. “And just to be totally clear,” she added, “I wasn’t with Bucky at the time, and it wasn’t by force. I mean, the situation required it, but… he didn’t force me. I, uh… I wanted it to be him.” 

She looked at Loki again, aware that she was probably fucking this up, in spite of her efforts to prepare and to speak carefully. He finally glanced to her with his eyes, and he pressed his lips together and shook his head fractionally. 

The entire assembly rumbled a little, except for the daughter, who’d been as still as a statue since she’d kneeled down. The guards pounded their spears on the floor again, silencing the room. 

One of the other officials, a sour-looking alien with a weak chin, leaned forward to speak to her now. He was at the desk to the judge’s right, and she was pretty sure he was one of the disgruntled ones from before, who’d passed the note down to the judge upon confirmation of her being female. He had an air of assured superiority and condescension that felt very familiar to Darcy— apparently misogynistic assholes were recognizable in any galaxy. He practically spat his question at her. 

“You admit you would willingly lie with someone outside the binding? And with one such as this?” And he pointed to Loki, his face and his tone as shocked as if she’d chosen to bed a shit-covered donkey. 

“Hey!” she said, the indignation automatic, and she could feel Bucky reach out as if to grab her arm, to warn her, but he stopped, managing to pull himself back before making contact. She could feel that Steve had also taken a step forward, behind her and to her left. 

“He was a— a total gentleman,” she continued, angry now. “And he left it up to me, and yeah— I did it willingly, as much as that was possible in that weird, fu— _messed-up_ situation. And if it happened again, I totally would vouch for him to treat… _any_ lady with the same respect.” 

She looked around the room, trying to give her words some weight, but it fell short, as she and the fairy-girl were the only two females present. “I believe Tolkir meant no disrespect to… to the daughter of…” She faltered, not being able to remember how to say the guy’s name. “The honored citizen,” she finally said. “I think it was a misunderstanding.” 

As she was saying it, she was surprised to realize that she actually meant it. That— regardless of whatever else Loki had done— she believed this much to be true of him, and that she would stand by her words. 

She jabbed her finger toward the sour guy, unable to help herself, as long as she had the floor. “And I take, like, _super_ great exception to your tone, _sir_.” She felt like she was in some kind of courtroom drama, and she was _bringing_ it now. “There’s no reason to be insulting like that. And anyway, in my culture at least, _Tolkir_ —” She emphatically pointed to Loki, while mentally congratulating herself for so seamlessly using his fake name— “ _Tolkir_ would be, like, a _catch_. Attractive and smart and funny and kind.” 

She was speaking hypothetically, of course, attesting to the character of the man he was _before_ — the one from her story— the one she’d actually had fun with— felt safe with— in a ridiculous situation that could have otherwise been deeply traumatizing or even deadly. 

She only hoped they didn’t ask her to elaborate on her _present_ opinion of him, because she knew at this point that she would attempt to spout whatever lies were necessary, if only in hopes of somehow saving them all, so that they could get the hell off this horrible planet. 

She glanced at Loki again, and saw that his face had a hint of something different in it— he almost looked flustered— bewildered— as though he were thinking, _why are you lying; this isn’t helping_ … and it broke her heart a little. As much as she really did think he was a bit of an asshole— enjoyed needling people unnecessarily— and had horrible crimes to atone for, she nevertheless was _not_ lying: she’d meant every word. And she wished he could know that, could believe it. 

Maybe if he did— if he knew even just the _possibility_ existed, for him to be seen that way— if he could embrace his potential for good (okay, maybe that was a stretch, but at least to not be a homicidal dick)— then maybe… just maybe, he would see himself worth redeeming. Would try harder to find a way to do so. 

With the life-span Asgardians enjoyed… or— what was he really? A frost giant? Thor hadn’t been clear on that, and Loki certainly hadn’t been forthcoming about his true heritage… In any case, he presumably had a lot of life left ahead of him, and she felt certain he had the capacity to do more good than evil in the Universe, if he so chose… or a least to choose a neutral path, and have some fun along the way…. 

She wondered if he was even interested in redemption. Many criminals weren’t. 

Hoping to distract the panel from further questioning about his present character, she took another risk, and, crossing her arms over her chest, said, “I think an apology is in order. This is, like, an official hearing or whatever. It’s totally… _unacceptable_ to be rude like that.” She’d used the word deliberately, having noted their love of the concept— that they needed things to be _acceptable_ — hoping it would resonate. 

Everyone on the panel looked stunned for a moment, taking in everything she’d said, and when she glanced to Loki, he had his eyes shut again, his face wrinkled as though in pain, or bracing for some kind of lashing. _Well, shit._

She half-expected to be dragged away by the guards, taken into custody and then left to await death by stoning for daring to talk back to the panel so brazenly, but to her surprise, the judge eventually pursed his lips and then nodded his head slightly. 

“Agreed,” he said, and then he made an odd hand gesture, raising his first two fingers in a V-shape and tracing a circle in the air. “Such behavior is certainly unacceptable. You have my apologies, my lady, on behalf of the honored councilman. Let us continue.” 

She smirked, glancing at the rude guy, unable to help herself. _In your face, asswipe_. He just scowled back at her and then looked down, pretending to shuffle some papers around. 

“When you were returned to your people,” the judge was saying, and she forced herself to pay attention again. “You were not… separated? Confined, or marked in some way?” 

“Uh… no,” she said, trying not to bristle at the implication. _Not my culture, not my culture, not my culture…_

She didn’t want to disclose how Loki had clouded her memory, assuming that would not paint him in a good light, so instead she just decided to offer another truth. “In my, uh… culture? Well, in my country, at least, we don’t usually…” She stopped herself— she’d been about to say, ‘shame,’ but opted for a more diplomatic way to characterize their way of doing things. 

“Uh, we don’t make it our business to _judge_ a person for who they, uh… who they lie with. I mean, to be honest, there’s still a lot of judgment that happens, but not officially. Like, the laws are supposed to protect people against that. And also? People aren’t necessarily… _bound_ to those they… I mean, they can be? But they don’t have to be…” 

The entire panel seemed disgusted by her words, but the judge merely exhaled a breath through his nose, and then said, “I believe I understand.” He put up his hand again, to stave off any more interruptions, either from her or from the panel. 

“You,” he said, shifting his focus to Bucky. “You are bound to this… woman? She belongs to you?” 

Bucky stepped forward slightly. “Uh… not exactly. We, uh… we’ve been planning to get married, but we haven’t made all the arrangements yet.” 

“But she has promised herself to you. It has been declared, officially?” 

“Uh, yeah…” he said, glancing to Darcy, not wanting to speak for her, but she just gave him a little smile and a nod. He didn’t know how to explain to these rule-bound beings that while they hadn't _chosen_ to have a formal engagement announcement, it didn’t mean it wasn’t official, as far as their friends and family were concerned. You didn’t have to publish it in the New York Times to make it real, for the intentions to root bone-deep… 

“And you would willingly bind yourself to her, knowing that she also lay with the Asgardian?” Everyone on the panel was listening closely, apparently shocked that such a thing could be true. 

“Yeah,” said Bucky. “I mean, I love her. That has nothing to do with who she, uh… who she was with before me.” 

There was a flurry of quiet commentary among the panel members as they leaned toward one another, and the judge held up his hand again, calling for quiet. 

“You there,” said the judge, turning his attention to Steve. “Step forward.” Steve came up to stand directly next to Darcy, and the judge looked at him sharply. “As a member of the lady’s guard, I expect you are well familiar with the status of their… commitment, and their oath to bind to one another?” 

“I am,” said Steve, speaking formally, in his steady and reliable Captain America voice. 

“And you would attest to the verity of these statements? She is to be bound to him? In spite of her past… relations?” 

“Yes, sir,” said Steve. “There is no question of their commitment.” 

“Thank you,” said the judge. “You may step back.” He was tapping his fingers on the desk again. “This is all… highly irregular, but I am attempting to make concessions for your… unusual differences… We have no protocol for such… situations.” 

He gestured to Bucky again. “You: dark-haired one. Come forward and be heard, officially.” 

Bucky glanced at Darcy again as he stepped up to her side, and she gave him another tiny nod of support. He took a breath, centering himself physically and mentally. 

“As the lady’s confirmed intended, you may now speak for her,” said the judge. “This will assist us greatly in this matter.” 

Darcy bristled automatically at that, but she wasn’t going to rock the boat, if this could move things along. At least she trusted Bucky not to say anything she didn’t completely agree with. 

“Speaking as her… mate-to-be— would you stand by this woman’s claims?” the judge asked. 

"I do," said Bucky, formally. 

“And her statements that the Asgardian comported himself with honor in their… dealings? That she speaks to his honor in any such future… incidents? You would stand by her side as she makes these claims, and in so doing take on her dishonor should she prove to speak false?” 

Bucky seemed to think for a moment, clenching his jaw, and then squared his stance and cleared his throat before speaking. “Sir,” he said, his voice steady, his words bold and emphatic as they filled the room. “I stand here now, not for recreation or sport, but… being resolved to live or die by her side. I’d lay down, for her… and for my companions… my honor and my blood.” 

Darcy was holding her breath. They’d watched Elizabeth: the Golden Age just a couple of weeks ago, and she’d been bummed by how much of the Tilbury speech they’d left out of the film. Because Bucky was a huge nerd in a way that made her love him even more, he’d lain in bed that night reading the full text of the speech online, in its several versions. Apparently he’d memorized some of it. 

Steve and Loki, meanwhile, were staring at him like he’d grown an extra head, having no clue from where— from what depths of his ass— he’d pulled such uncharacteristic lines. 

The judge, though, was another story, his face both thoughtful and serious, and he was nodding, his fingers laced together at the apex of a triangle made of his forearms as his elbows rested on his desk. 

“I can well see that you are a man of honor,” he said after a time, and Bucky exhaled, relaxing a fraction, but then the judge continued in a less inspiring direction: “But all of this… the difficulty in comprehending your ways… it… offends me. I grow weary…” He leaned back, steepling his golden fingers against his chest. 

There was silence for a moment, and then the father spoke up, carefully. “If I may, Magistrate,” he said, and when the judge did not move to silence him immediately, he continued. “Why not simply toss all of them beyond the barrier and be done with it. It could be achieved within the hour.” 

The judge seemed to consider it, actually stroking his bottom lip with his gold-toned index finger, the dark pupils of his eyes inscrutable. But then he shook his head tiredly and sat up straighter. “No,” he said, sighing, as though it were a terrible burden to be saddled with so much wisdom. “I think not. We are not brutes, like them.” After another moment of thought, he said, “I believe I have a solution.” 

Darcy swallowed, her stomach sour, and glanced at Loki again; he seemed to be holding his breath as well. It was terrifying, knowing that all of their fates rested in the decision of one rigid, alien being, bound by the rules of this stringent, priggish culture. She could only hope that Loki would teleport the four of them away, even without getting his dick back, if it came down to it… 

“In spite of the… challenges in understanding your differences,” said the judge finally, “I must admit I find myself impressed by the words of the dark-haired one.” His eyes moved to Bucky again as he spoke. “He demonstrates an understanding of honor, and would make a good mate. Perhaps his guidance will be sufficient ablution… to cleanse the shame of his lady.” His eyes flicked to Darcy. “Perhaps not.” 

Darcy bit her lip, again reminding herself that all of this was temporary— not her world. Thank fucking God. 

“I judge it… acceptable,” said the old alien, and he made that hand gesture again— the circle in the air with his two fingers. “They may join in the binding. In so doing, her severance from the Asgardian will be complete, according to her own custom as I understand it. And then we may finally witness and record a formal rejection in the other matter, collect the appropriate fee, and thereby expunge the insult done to the honorable Am’a Eechor. Only then may the Asgardian’s flesh be restored, and all may go peaceably on their way.” 

Darcy again looked to Loki, not entirely sure what had been decided. It all frankly sounded like a bunch of bullshit— apparently nobody actually cared whether Loki had done anything to hurt or humiliate the alien woman; they were more concerned about the ‘insult’ to her father, brought about by Loki’s actions, regardless of whether the lady was victim or willing participant. 

But Loki’s face had finally relaxed, and he was letting out a careful breath, eyes shut again, seemingly relieved, so it must have been good news, whatever it was. He finally opened his eyes and glanced at her, nodding his head slightly, and she smiled back at him faintly before turning her attention back to the judge. 

“So what happens now?” she asked bluntly, forgetting her manners. “Am I done here?” 

“You may now bind yourself to this man,” he said, nodding to Bucky. “By the laws of our world, you will be bound to him for all time, inviolate. Are you prepared?” 

“Uh… okay?” she said, glancing at Bucky, and he nodded back to her, just as confused, but reassuring nevertheless. “I mean, yes. I would be… honored.” 

“Then it shall be so,” said the judge, and he seemed to be as pleased as he could be, faced by what he obviously considered a distasteful affair all around. The guards stamped their spears on the ground, and everyone who was seated stood up, except for the daughter, who remained kneeling on the low banquette, and the judge boomed out, “Bring the necessary items so that these two creatures may be bound.” 

Darcy looked up at Bucky again, raising her eyebrows a little, not sure she believed the words even as they left her mouth: 

“I guess we’re getting married.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much more was suppsoed to happen in this chapter, but I’m so fricking long-winded that what was supposed to be 1 chapter is now shaping up to be 3... blame Bucky; he sucked me right into his head and I was helpless.  
> ——————————————

“All those observing may leave.” 

One of the guards had raised his voice high to make the announcement, and, though he’d used the word ‘ _may_ ’, it was clear the directive was not optional. His words were immediately followed by a rumbling of activity, as all those who’d been seated in the audience made their way down the central aisle to the main doors, filing out in an orderly fashion. 

“You may stay, Am’a Eechor,” said the judge, nodding to the man who yet stood impassively behind his kneeling daughter. “We recognize the need to witness the… cleaving of any possible… relationship with the Asgardian before we proceed.” 

The father frowned, and then bowed slightly and said, “If it please you, Magistrate, I would prefer to withdraw. I would not have my daughter behold such… intimacies, even among these lower creatures. I trust the honored councilmen to witness on my behalf.” 

The judge seemed to consider it, but then shook his head. “While I do… appreciate your concern, I must ask that you remain. You know as well as I that, as the injured party, you must witness first-hand as we settle the matter.” He tilted his head to the side for a second and then added, “I will allow you to remove her to the spectator seating, so that there may be more distance between her and the Outsiders… and I give her leave to shut her eyes, should she find their binding… indelicate.” 

The father nodded his head in acceptance, and then made a little grunting noise, at which his daughter rose, quite elegantly, and turned to follow him down the central aisle. The father led them to the row at the very rear of the room, and gestured for his daughter to take a seat. He sat down in the same row, leaving a buffer of three empty seats between them. Both of them stared straight ahead, their faces emotionless. 

With all other spectators now gone, the guards at the main doors pulled them shut once again with a resounding thud, and then all was still. Steve, Darcy, and Bucky remained standing in place, in a loose row before the tribunal, while Loki kept to his position, off to the side. 

They stole little glances at one another as they waited, but otherwise kept quiet, the only sound in the room the gentle rustling of papers by some of the panel members. 

One of them, a hefty-looking fellow who sat to the judge’s left, rose from his seat and approached the judge in a lumbering, bent-over gait, and sagged a bit further to whisper something in his ear. The judge nodded, glancing at Darcy, and then steepled his golden-brown fingers again as the other alien returned to his seat. 

“Councilman Odho is correct to remind me that we must have a male kinsman formally grant permission for the binding,” he said. “As you are strangers here, with no prior knowledge of such need, nor means, I assume, to procure such a personage, we shall be forced to appoint—” 

Darcy cleared her throat and raised her hand. 

“Yes?” he said, more surprised than irritated. “You may speak.” 

“Um, what about Steve?” she asked, turning to gesture to him, where he stood to her left. “He’s totally like family to me. Way more than any of my blood family, back home. Could he do it?” 

The judge pursed his lips, considering. 

“I mean,” she added, trying to strengthen her argument, “he’s also been our… chaperone, while we’ve been here, so… it seems sort of… appropriate?” 

The judge nodded, apparently agreeing. “Yes,” he said. “It is acceptable.” He sighed then, and addressed Steve. “I hasten to remind you that this binding is… highly irregular, and will merely comprise the most basic and crucial components of what is otherwise a very solemn and lengthy set of rites. I am authorizing an abbreviated ceremony for the sake of this unusual situation, but you should not take this as representative of what typically passes for acceptable on our world. Nevertheless, you need know that your permission, once received by the Weaver, shall be irrevocable.” 

“I understand,” said Steve, because it was the only reasonable thing to say. “I’m sure it will be… fine.” He glanced to Darcy and she gave him a tense little smile, her lips pressed tightly together. The truth was, they had no idea what they were signing up for, and could only hope nothing horrible was about to happen. 

“Asgardian,” said the judge, turning to Loki, “You are to remain, to experience the severance, but you must sit well back, and not interfere.” He gestured to the seats on the right-hand side of the room, across the aisle from where the father and daughter sat. “You may wait there.” The father looked disgruntled at this, but the daughter was impassive as always, a frozen statue. 

Loki— _Tolkir_ — cleared his throat then, and the judge looked to him again and furrowed his brow. “You have something to add?” 

Loki had a concerned look on his face, and Darcy was surprised to see that it seemed genuine. “Yes, well,” he began, “I wish to understand… that is to say… as Outsiders, they know little of your rituals, and I wish to know, on my companions’ behalf, whether there are any aspects of the… rites that they should be aware of beforehand, so that they may appropriately… prepare…” 

Darcy realized then that Loki was just as ignorant as they, about this binding ritual, and her stomach soured, the acid rising with the anxiety in her chest. Because jeez— if _Loki_ was uneasy… but then, she supposed it only made sense for him to be concerned, for his own reasons. Clearly he needed them to go through with this, whatever it entailed, as it seemed the only path to his restoration— but if they died, or otherwise failed to bind or whatever, he’d probably be back to square one, or at a dead-end. 

“There is nothing to prepare,” said the judge, gruffly. “So long as the… woman has truly been promised, which I judge we have already established to be the case, then there is no other concern.” He hesitated then, and said, “Unless…” He got a dent in his brow as he studied the humans. “Are you sensitive to the properties of the _e'lo_ fruit?” 

Bucky shifted his feet. “Couldn’t say. Unless we had some of it last night.” 

“You would not have,” said the judge. “Its use is carefully guarded by the Weavers.” 

_Well then how the fuck would we know?_ thought Darcy, irritated. 

“I should be very surprised, were they to have an antagonistic response,” said the judge. “It has been used for mega-anna among our people, and, to my knowledge, has never caused harm…” 

“If there is a… negative response to the fruit,” pressed Loki. “Would you allow me to… intervene on their behalf? To do what I may to assist them?” 

“That would be acceptable,” said the judge, “but only in the case that they be in mortal peril, and you _will_ seek permission before any interruption.” 

Loki inclined his head in agreement, and then moved quietly past the humans to take a seat behind them. He tried to speak to Darcy with his eyes as he passed— a jumble of expressions, really… an apology, but also an assurance— but when she looked at him quizzically, he exhaled, frustrated, and continued on, taking a spot on the aisle, several rows back. 

The judge leaned back in his own large chair, steepling his fingers again, and then they all went back to waiting in near silence, broken only by the occasional grunt of a cleared throat on the panel from time to time. 

Darcy looked back at Loki once, hoping to catch his eye again, wanting to know what he’d tried to say, but he simply shook his head and then looked down at his hands where they lay folded in his lap. 

Finally there was the sound of a chime from somewhere, and the guards at the side entrance stamped their spears and opened their doors. A tall, willowy alien with a golden robe entered the room, trailed by a young male who was carrying a black tray with assorted vessels on it. The tall alien was walking with his eyes shut but seemed to have no problem navigating his way gracefully through the chamber. 

He came to a stop in the middle of the open area, turned to face the judge, and slowly bowed, while his young assistant stood by, still holding the tray. “Whom have I been called upon to bind?” he said in a high, lilting voice. 

The judge hesitated, and then said, “They are Outsiders. I have judged it acceptable, but as time is short and we must be brief, they are to proceed directly to the Rites.” 

“And what of the Consignment?” said the tall one, his voice unhurried. It was a little creepy: somehow musical, yet lacking emotion. 

“Ah, yes— that we must do, to be sure,” said the judge. “But skip the rest.” 

The tall one nodded in acquiescence and then turned to face the row of humans, though his eyes were still closed. He pressed his palms together, fingers pointing straight up, and in his shimmery golden robe, he looked a bit like an angel in prayer. A few seconds later he broke his hands apart as his eyes popped open, and Darcy flinched instinctively— his eyeballs were completely black… as though the unnaturally large alien pupils had, in this one, gradually expanded to swallow up all the sclera, leaving sightless ebony orbs. At least she assumed they were sightless— he wasn’t behaving like someone reacting to visual input. 

He’d spread his arms wide, and there was a ripple of energy in the air, like an invisible warmth that spread out from his body in a wave, and what looked like a small stone pedestal seemed to materialize before him. He lowered his hands, his eyes falling shut again. 

The young assistant came forward, set his tray down on the pedestal, and then stepped back and assumed a formal stance— placing his hands one atop the other, against his abdomen, elbows pointing straight out. 

“Do they understand the ceremony?” The tall one was addressing the judge, though he still faced the trio of humans. 

“No,” said the judge. “They know nothing of our ways. Your acolyte will need to guide them.” 

The tall one seemed to be pondering something, his brow suggesting a hint of concern. “Do they even have a nexus… for the Link?” 

The judge frowned and shifted in his seat. “I cannot say. Forgive me for not determining this earlier.” He turned his attention to Bucky. “Dark-haired one. Are your kind in possession of a… we call it a ‘nexus’… it supplies us with all that is needed to live, so long as it functions. A… center, if you will…” 

Bucky cleared his throat and said, “I guess you’d be talkin’ about what we call a heart. It… pumps blood… takes oxygen and… nutrients to the rest of the body.” 

“In our culture this organ also symbolizes commitment and faith,” said the tall alien. “Is it so with your kind?” 

“Yeah,” said Bucky. “Yes. On our world, the heart… it’s supposed to be the… well, if the brain’s the center of intellect, the heart’s where emotions come from. Poetically, at least. Scientifically, of course, we know that ain’t… uh… that isn’t really the case. But symbolically, yeah. It’s pretty important in our culture that way too.” 

“And this— would you call it a vessel?” 

“We call it an organ,” said Bucky, nodding, “made up of multiple vessels.” 

“Where is this… organ… located?” 

“Near the center of the chest,” said Bucky, and he placed his palm over his chest to indicate. “Here.” 

The tall alien didn’t open his black eyes to look, but apparently he could see it somehow, because he nodded. “Yes,” he said. “That is very close. It will do. You must bare this location to one another, before we begin.” 

Darcy and Bucky looked at one another, unsure how to interpret his words. Did he mean symbolically, like a spiritual intimacy? Or were they meant to actually take their shirts off? 

The assistant seemed to sense their uncertainty, because he glanced at the tall one, perhaps seeking permission to speak, and then he bowed to Bucky politely and spoke quietly but clearly, his voice higher-pitched than those of the adults, just as with prepubescent children on Earth. 

“You must be able to touch,” he explained. “Skin-to-skin, at that location— with one’s hand, that is… pressed to the other’s flesh— either by removing or parting the necessary garments.” 

Bucky nodded and began to slowly unbutton his shirt, but Darcy hesitated. 

“You have a question,” said the tall one, without looking her way. “You may ask it.” 

_Okay, creepy?_ “Um…” She shifted nervously. “In order to, uh… to bare that part of my body, I’m gonna have to take off this sweatshirt, and the, uh… the shirt I have on underneath? It’s… well, it’s not much. Like, you can see my… the shape of my body. And my arms will be totally bare. Is that gonna be okay?” 

“Do not be afraid,” said the tall one. “The councilmen will not be enticed by your flesh. You are as a brute animal… a beast to them. Unsuitable.” 

“Oh,” she said, swallowing down her instinct to push back at the insult. “I, uh… that’s not what I was worried about, actually. I just didn’t want to offend anyone. Some of the buildings on my planet, like the ones used for ceremonies, or for…worship? They sometimes have rules about that stuff, and my shirt… my bare shoulders… well, it wouldn’t be… acceptable in some of those buildings.” 

The tall one nodded. “I understand. Your concern is appreciated, if unexpected. Were you a real woman it would be unacceptable, to be sure. But you need not be concerned, any more than would a horse need shy from having its saddle removed. Proceed.” 

She almost laughed at how politely she was being degraded, and how hypocritical it all was. On the one hand, they got all worked up over minor things like hand-holding, or Bucky briefly touching her back, but then turned around and compared her to an animal— incapable of even being the object of such attention. _Make up your mind, assholes_ , she wanted to say. 

Bucky shot her a look she knew well— it basically said, “ _Fuck ‘em_ ,” and it immediately made her feel better. She threaded her arms inside her sweatshirt and then pulled it over her head, but held the bundle of fabric in front of her chest anyway, self-conscious in spite of the tall alien’s assurances. 

Bucky, meanwhile, had gotten his blue chamois shirt completely unbuttoned, but was reluctant to remove it completely. He wasn’t sure how his prosthesis would be received in this culture. Maybe disabled people were also… what had the judge said? _Withdrawn_. 

Hoping nobody would think he was up to anything sneaky, he quickly tapped and swiped the required combination on his prosthetic hand, enabling the camouflage program, and changed the settings to envelop the entire arm, rather than just the hand. The camouflage program had been glitching a little, and it wouldn’t look exactly like a normal arm, but maybe it would pass enough to avoid questions… 

“You may give your garment to your kinsmen,” the young assistant was saying to Darcy, trying to be helpful. He looked not much older than what would be a tween on Earth, and he had a kind face. She smiled at him instinctively, and he lowered his eyes, embarrassed. 

She handed the sweatshirt over to Steve, but kept her hands up by her sternum, her forearms pressed against the fabric covering her breasts, feeling exposed and a little bit trashy in the thin little tank that did nothing to conceal her curves. 

“You may do so as well,” the boy told Bucky, indicating that he should fully remove his shirt. 

Bucky took a breath and slipped his long-sleeved shirt off all the way, leaving him in a white tank-top as well— it was one of his sleeveless, rib-knit undershirts that Darcy referred to as _wife-beaters_. Bucky favored them for ease of prosthesis-removal; Darcy favored them for… other reasons. 

She’d tried to explain it once— how they were simultaneously old-fashioned and ‘hot’, which didn’t make much sense to him. When he was growing up, every guy he knew wore something like it, including old Mr. D’Angelo, who’d sit on the steps with his shirt unbuttoned, drunk off his ass and stinking of a man who hadn’t washed in far too long, beer gut stretching out the fabric of his sweat-soaked undershirt as he chain-smoked Luckies and yelled at all the neighborhood kids to stay the hell offa his stoop, flicking the ground-out butts at them as they ran by… there was nothin’ ‘hot’ about any of _that_ … 

He’d told her about Mr. D’Angelo one night, after he’d collapsed onto their bed after a long day, still in his boxers and one of those wife-beaters, and she’d straddled him and started waxing poetic about ‘gifts to humanity’ as she’d run her frisky little hands over his body… 

He’d painted it real nice for her then with his words, that picture of D’Angelo sweating and ranting on the street, and she’d just giggled and pinched his nipple and said, “ _It’s not the shirt that’s the hot-factor, dummy; it’s YOU— in the shirt. Jeez, I could list hundreds of guys I wouldn’t wanna see in a wife-beater…_ ” 

His prosthesis was now completely exposed, all the way up to where it joined to the socket at his shoulder. He felt uncomfortable— exposed— in a way he hadn’t in a long time, but he shoved the feeling down, looking around for somewhere to put the chamois shirt— maybe drape it over one of the seats behind them… 

He could see Loki watching them from where he was seated, a few rows back, some unknown emotion on his face. He almost looked… guilty. Regretful. Maybe he thought they were being forced into this ‘binding’ against their will— that getting hitched wasn’t even something they’d want, given a choice. Maybe that’s what he’d wanted to tell them before, when he’d given Darcy that look on the way to his seat— to apologize for getting them into this— that it’d gone this far. Bucky almost felt bad for the guy— wanted to tell him it was all right— that he was happy to get hooked up to Darcy, officially— on Earth, or any other planet. 

Steve finally noticed how Bucky was looking around awkwardly, and he stepped forward to take the shirt from him, giving him a reassuring little nod at the same time. 

Yeah— there was no fooling Steve, he thought; he could tell Bucky was getting sucked into it— was getting nervous, like it was the real deal, and that was the truth of it, wasn’t it? It wasn’t just about the arm… it was about _shit, I’m getting married on an alien planet, to the girl of my dreams_ , and wasn’t that a boyhood wet-dream come true. 

Bucky got a flutter in his chest from the interaction, the simple act of Steve coming up quietly to take his shirt, like a proper groomsman… like a preview of how it was gonna be some day— Steve hovering around him, gettin’ him ready, keeping his nerves in check… when he and Darcy did this for real, back on Earth. If they ever got around to it. 

One of the reasons they hadn’t done it yet was because they couldn’t agree on the _how_. Darcy wanted a civil ceremony: something really basic— no pomp; no white dress; no array of bridesmaids and groomsmen and expense and planning and _blah blah blah_ and when she started to go on a tirade about the waste of it all, and the stress, he could see her point, but… Bucky still wanted something more than just… well, the way she described the ceremony _she_ envisioned, it sounded about as romantic as registering a used car. 

Call him old fashioned, but something in him wanted to see his girl walking down some kinda aisle, carrying flowers… something pretty, like her… her eyes finding his as he waited for her at the end of it, knowing she’d chosen him, and that he’d chosen her, all of their friends there to witness it… to celebrate their public declaration, their commitment to a life together… 

It didn’t need to be religious; Bucky didn’t believe in much of anything anymore, other than what he could see and hear and feel is his everyday life, but he wanted something more than just forking over some cash and signing a piece of paper. It meant more to him than that. 

They hadn’t been able to come to any kind of compromise— yet— each of them stubbornly assuming that the other would eventually come around… and so they kept putting it off… 

While they’d been busy getting their shirts off, the tall alien had murmured something to his assistant, who took up a vessel and a tool from the tray— it looked something like a mortar and pestle. He placed several desiccated purple fruits into the bowl, added a small amount of dark liquid, which he poured from a tiny clay ewer, and began to grind the ingredients together with the pestle. 

The judge was leaning forward now, his brow furrowed in confusion— he’d finally noticed Bucky’s arm. “You are not like the others,” he said curiously. “You are… but you cannot… are you… synthetic?” 

“Uh… no,” said Bucky, turning to face him. “No, sir. I’m real enough. It’s, uh… it’s just the arm. I lost the real one… well, in a war.” 

“You are a soldier?” 

“I was, sir. Yes.” 

The judge nodded. “And this… artifice? It is acceptable on your world? You are still considered… a man?” 

Bucky choked out a nervous laugh at the insulting question. Apparently it was his turn for a little friendly degradation. “Well, I can’t speak for everyone, but yeah. Decent folks would still consider me a man.” 

“And your mate-to-be. She was promised to you before this war? Before you were… disfigured?” 

“No, sir.” Bucky exhaled and looked down, calmed himself. “It happened a long time ago,” he said, softly. “We, uh… we didn’t know each other then. She met me after.” 

“I see,” said the judge, sitting back. He seemed disturbed— his words more of a courtesy, rather than an understanding. “It is just the one side? Your other arm is… intact? Like a normal man?” 

“Yeah,” said Bucky, turning to show him. 

“That is… reassuring,” said the judge. “It should not affect the binding. Had they both been…” He shook his head. 

“Darcy— that is, uh… my mate-to-be— she’s the one who made it,” Bucky said. “Made my prosthesis.” He probably should’ve kept his mouth shut, but he couldn’t resist needling these jerkwads just a little bit. “She designed it, engineered most of it herself.” 

At this, the entire panel began to mumble, and some of them leaned forward, openly scoffing, including the judge. “Surely you—” he started, and broke off. “You expect us to believe— a _woman_ —” 

The judge flashed a sharp look at Darcy, and Bucky glanced at her too: she was standing there shivering, goosebumps breaking out all over the exposed parts of her arms, and she was caving in a little on herself, her arms pressed to her chest, trying to hide the little peaks of her nipples that he knew would be poking through her top, and she suddenly seemed so small… powerless, in this male-dominated world, helpless in way he’d only ever personally experienced— _No. Not thinking about that right now…_

He felt sick for a second, now worried he’d made a mistake, calling attention to her abilities. He, of any of them, should know better— knew how poorly fascists took to criticism… and the arm she’d made was a perfect critique: a stunning and irrefutable contradiction of the narrow-minded beliefs of this world. 

He wanted to go to her— the instinct to protect her with his body so primal that he had to force it down roughly, afraid he’d lose control if he let it gain any foothold— furious that he couldn’t risk it, even if just to give her some small comfort, to keep her warm. 

He was keeping an eye on the judge, trying to gauge his reaction, but the old goat had already lost interest in Darcy, and was now checking in on the progress of the young assistant. The boy was still hard at work with the mortar and pestle, while the tall alien simply stood by placidly, waiting with his eyes shut. 

Apparently deducing that they had a little more time, the judge returned his attention fully to Bucky, and the prosthetic arm. “Approach,” he said, beckoning him to step forward. “Show me.” 

Bucky puffed a breath out through his mouth and stepped up to the bench, turning his left side toward it, and lifted his artificial limb so they could see it better. All of the panelists were leaning forward, the ones at the end-desks standing up and edging their way in, craning to get a look at the prosthesis. 

The judge reached out and wrinkled his brow— if he’d had eyebrows, he’d have been pushing them far up his forehead. “May I…” 

“Yeah, go ahead,” said Bucky, and he rested his arm on the judge’s desk so that they could touch it. He’d gotten used to people doing this— poking and prodding the arm and the hand— during his travels with Darcy, participating in her consultations with the beneficiaries of the foundation she and Stark had set up. 

He’d been uncomfortable with it at first— Darcy had been the only person he’d truly felt at ease seeing him, touching him like that— but when he’d seen the effect it had, especially on the kids who were getting a prosthesis for the first time, it’d changed him. He could see himself through their eyes: whole and sound and happily functioning, at least as far as they knew… 

It’d been humbling and inspiring and his attitude had undergone a metamorphosis… his relationship with his disability… with his own body, and what had happened to it… learning a new level of comfort and self-acceptance that was finally expanding beyond the bubble of trust and security he’d always enjoyed with Darcy. 

Now, as he replayed the words of the judge in his head… the disbelief so clearly implied: _you are still considered a man?_ … he heard them like an echo of his old self— the ghost of his own insecurity, from the time before he’d even realized how abusive such thoughts were. Back when he used to torment himself with that way of thinking, he’d been convinced he was simply being realistic. Neutral. Pragmatic. 

Hearing that kind of shit delivered with such sincerity from another being— directed toward him like some kind of accepted, objective truth— he could see it, maybe for the first time, for its pure ugliness. No different from a gang of bullies in a Brooklyn alleyway calling Steve a ‘fairy’ before beating him to a pulp, making damn sure he learned, deep in his bones, that the person he was inside— his true self— was _wrong_ … something hateful and vile and never to be accepted, not even by Steve himself. 

God, Bucky was glad that Steve had survived to see the twenty-first century. 

It was pretty obvious that these aliens had a long way to go, despite their ‘mega-anna’ of civilization, and their crummy attitude about women and disability was probably just the tip of the iceberg… 

He didn’t know how far he could push it, with the arm, but… maybe seeing an example of disability close-up… what it was, and what it was _not_ … well, you never knew. Tiny ripples can become waves… 

Now the judge tentatively placed one golden-brown hand on the wrist of the prosthesis, comically leery, like he was risking something dangerous. He seemed to startle at the feel of it, and quickly jerked his hand back. 

Bucky kept his cool, and simply flipped his hand over, slowly moving the fingers so that they could see it in action, see how realistic the movement was. “This’s a new prototype,” he said. “She’s been workin’ real hard on it. We were takin’ a week off— givin’ it a test run, when uh… when _Tolkir_ came knockin’ on our door…” 

“You were completely serious, then,” said the judge, a note of skepticism still there, as though wary of being put-on, bracing for the punchline. “Your… intended. She truly is the… creator of this… apparatus.” 

“She is,” said Bucky, and he finally withdrew his arm and stepped back. “I swear to it, on my life, that what I’ve told you is the truth.” He looked carefully at each of the panelists, hoping to see some sign of forward-thinking in just one of them— but their faces were impassive, unreadable. 

The judge leaned back in his chair, while the other panelists returned to their own seats. “I do not… understand, completely,” said the judge. “But I can see that you are sincere. It is very… confusing.” 

Bucky was formulating a response, when the young assistant spoke up suddenly. “It is ready,” he announced proudly, stepping away from the pedestal. 

“Are we to proceed then?” asked the tall one casually, tilting his head a bit toward the judge. While he hadn’t participated in the conversation about Bucky’s arm, he apparently had been following it. 

“Yes, yes,” said the judge, waving a hand dismissively. “I can’t pretend to understand their ways, but her kinsmen swears by their commitment, and his other arm should do for the ceremony…” He shook his head. “This is the most irregular binding I have ever authorized,” he muttered. After a moment of silence, he seemed to realize they were all still waiting, and he sat up and did the V-finger thing, perfunctorily, making a quick circle in the air. “Proceed.” 

The tall one spread out his arms again, palms facing out, the sleeves of his robe hanging down like golden, shimmering wings. His eyes were still shut. “Then let us begin.” 

A full minute passed in complete silence, and then another, and when nothing happened, Darcy glanced to Bucky, wondering _has it begun already? Are we getting married right now?_

She even risked a glance back to Loki, who responded with a shrug and an expression that so clearly communicated, ‘ _Fuck if I know_ ,’ that she had to choke down a laugh. He caught the humor in her face, and he stifled his own smile, his eyes dancing back at her, full of mirth, before she turned around again and tried to at least _pretend_ to have some maturity… 

She felt that odd tug again, as she stood there in the silence, thinking of how easily he’d almost made her laugh... how his eyes had sparkled to see her reaction: it was like she could recognize something in him... like a kindred spirit, and she had a wave of longing, a sadness that things couldn’t be different— wishing he weren’t a criminal, a fugitive… wishing they could be friends. 

Finally the tall one lowered his hands, took a breath, and loudly intoned, in an unquestionably formal cadence, “Who would offer the woman for binding? Be he here today? Let him come forth and say his words.” 

When Steve didn’t immediately move, Darcy turned her head to look at him— he was staring up at the ceiling, of all places. The grey, featureless ceiling. She would’ve elbowed him, but at this point was afraid to touch anyone, for any reason, so she just made a soft but urgent ‘ _psst_ ’ sound, and tilted her head significantly in the direction of the tall guy. 

“What?” said Steve, jerking his head down and blinking rapidly, like he’d been pulled from a nap. “Right— yeah, okay. Sorry.” Bucky was glaring at him, and Darcy could practically see the gears turning in Steve’s mind, as he replayed the words his brain had taken in, but had failed to consciously hear. 

He stepped forward, nervously put his hands on his hips for a second, and then dropped them again. “I, uh…” He held his right arm out, reaching for Darcy like he was going to put his hand on her shoulder. Just before making contact, he caught himself and pulled the hand back into a fist, bending his arm, and then looked at it, tried to make it look like he’d done it on purpose, as though the fist were some sort of formal gesture, and then finally gave up, dropping it to his side. 

Darcy almost erupted into another fit of giggles at his display, but managed to keep it together. 

“I present this woman,” he finally said, and then he looked at her and he said, a little softer, “My friend,” and Darcy melted just a little bit, no longer wanting to laugh at him. He was so damn earnest, even in this… charade, and she was flooded with love for him… 

Steve, for his part, knew he was surely meant to say more, but he was drawing a blank. He glanced at the tall alien, having no idea what else to say. He got no hints from the impassive face, the closed eyes, the eerie stillness of the alien’s body. The young assistant ventured to give him a little nod, though, as though trying to say that while he wasn’t going to win any awards, he hadn’t totally messed it up. 

After another long minute of silence, the tall one spoke again: “Are you prepared to cede all rights and privileges, for all time, transferring any and all claims?” 

“I am,” said Steve, his eyes flicking to Bucky. “I do.” 

“And what words would you offer him?” 

Steve was once again at a loss. Was he supposed to congratulate him? Give him a shovel talk? Fatherly advice? With the language that’d been used so far, it almost felt like they were transferring title to a car, and that the panel was expecting disclosures— _Watch the steering; it pulls a little to the right…_

In the end, he just cleared his throat and said, “I just…” He opened and shut his mouth a few times, and then he turned to look at his friend, the man he loved as a brother, had at one time loved as something more, and all he could say was the truth. 

“I want you to be happy,” he said, the words bursting out. “I know you already are, that you both— that you make each other happy. You deserve it, Buck.” He took a deep breath and let it out. “I’m happy for you.” 

Steve had always known this day would come— at least he had before the war— and he’d always dreaded it, thinking he’d have to get up there and lie, but… 

He wasn’t lying now. He was happy for them, and this weird little ceremony was getting to him already, as real as anything else he’d ever experienced. 

And his eyes welled up in tears, because it felt like it was really happening: that his best friends in the whole world were getting married, and he was really standing there, giving them his blessing… and he supposed, in fact, he was. Maybe they weren’t going to remember any of this, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t real. 

It was just like what Darcy’d been arguing, back at the cabin, about her stupid Scrabble word— about ‘fuck-sweat’, and about what made something _real_ , and maybe she was right. What made something real, anyway? Writing it down? Having a witness? Having someone else point to it and say, ‘ _yeah, I see it too_ ’? 

“Holy shit, Buck,” he said, the words escaping his lips, totally wrong, totally inappropriate, but nevertheless perfectly capturing what he was feeling inside, because… 

Buck was getting married. Somehow, they’d both survived that war, and the hell that’d followed, and found each other again, and it was real. Bucky was alive, and he was getting married. To the girl he loved… and who loved him back, and it was a fucking dream come true… 

And in any other situation his friend woulda come right back with, ‘ _Real eloquent, there, Stevie_ ,’ but not this time. This time Bucky just looked back at him, his face saying it all: _Yeah. I see it too_. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is soooo way too long, but every time I tried to shave it down, I wound up adding more than I took away, and I just need to post it before it gets even more out of control.  
> \---------------  
> There is some sexual content at the end of this chapter. As usual for me, I think it sort of skirts the line between M and E... like an M+. If you don't want to read it, just skip the ending. From the point where they are left at their door by the guards. You won't miss anything other than, "And then they did it."  
> \---------------

“You may step back.” 

The tall alien’s voice was polite but commanding as he addressed himself to Steve without actually looking at him. 

“Your Consignment is accepted,” he continued. “Should the binding fail, she will be returned to your charge. Excepting that unlikely outcome, once bound, she shall ever belong to this man by the power of our laws and ways and the marks they shall forever bear.” 

_Wait, what marks?_ wondered Darcy, as Steve stepped back a few paces. She hadn’t noticed any marks on anyone else… 

Steve clasped his hands together respectfully as he squared his stance. He was hoping the rest of the ceremony would go smoothly, but he was prepared to intervene, if need be— to do what little he could to protect his friends if things went sour. 

He glanced back to Loki; when the man’s false-blue eyes flicked over to meet his own, Steve could see him quickly interpret the tacit question he’d posed— Thor had never excelled in silent communication, preferring more direct methods, but his brother was apparently as capable as Tasha in reading a face. 

Loki nodded ever so slightly, his answer just as plain— an understanding… an agreement— as clear a pledge as any he’d seen on a battlefield, and with that one little nod, Steve knew that Loki was with him: ready and willing to fight, if necessary. 

It was an odd flicker in Steve’s head, one that he filed away, to examine later… when he realized that he trusted the man— trusted _Loki_ , of all people— to be as good as his silent word, at least on this occasion. Whether such trust could extend to other situations was unknowable, but the fact that it’d happened at all was utterly unexpected. 

Where Steve had anticipated something snide— a roll of the eyes, perhaps— there’d been only clear determination, evidence of resolve, and an instant understanding that they shared the same goal: to get themselves, and their people, out of here intact. Any prior divisions between them were irrelevant. 

The tall alien was spreading his arms wide again, his body centered in front of Darcy and Bucky, and he said, “You must now face one another and indicate acceptance of intention.” He turned his head toward his assistant and nodded his head in a motion that said, ‘ _Proceed_.’ 

Darcy and Bucky glanced at each other and then turned so that they were facing, both of them resisting the strong instinct to reach out and join hands— it seemed the natural thing to do, positioned as they were. 

The boy moved forward to approach the tray on the pedestal, and with pronounced concentration, poured some dark liquid from a vase into a small ceramic cup. He did it slowly, taking great care not to break the stream or spill a single drop. When he was done, he set the vase down again and let out a quiet breath, as though relieved, and then looked to the tall alien, a question on his face. 

“Acceptable,” said the tall one, moving to the side so that the boy could take his place. “You may guide them.” 

The boy nodded and carefully picked up the cup, holding it symmetrically in front of his chest with both hands. He moved to stand where the tall one had been, centered between Darcy and Bucky, and looked from one to the other, checking to see if he had their attention. 

“Both of you must drink,” he said. “One at a time. He will drink first, and then pass the cup to the… to her.” He sucked in a breath and warned, “It is important that… your fingers must not touch. Not yet.” 

Darcy wanted to ask what would happen if they fucked up and touched by accident— would they just have to start over with a new cup? Or would everyone freak out and deem them cursed? Zap Bucky’s dick to who-knows-where, or judge them _unsuitable_ and cast them beyond the barrier? 

She bit her lip and looked back up to Bucky, who was regarding her fondly— he could read her more easily than anyone, the churn of her anxious thoughts as plain to him as if they were written across her face. He gave her a small but reassuring smile, as though to say, “ _It’s okay; we got this,_ ” and she took in a deep breath and then let it out, trying to borrow some of his sangfroid. 

The assistant extended his arms slowly, using both hands to ritually transfer the cup to Bucky, who took it in his flesh hand and then, after an encouraging nod from the boy, instinctively sniffed it, raising his eyebrows. 

He turned back to face Darcy, giving her another look— this one said, “ _Here we go_ ,”— and then without further ado, dove right in. He took a generous sip, swallowed, and licked his lips. He glanced at the assistant again— the boy nodded in approval, and gestured that he should pass the cup to Darcy. 

Bucky’s big hand was practically engulfing the little cup; as Darcy reached out, trying to take it from him, she puzzled over how to get it without any risk of their skin touching, both of them smiling almost shyly as they tried to sort it out without speaking. Nobody had said anything about keeping quiet, but it was instinctive— it felt as though casual speech would somehow mar the moment. 

Finally Bucky lifted his prosthetic hand, palm up, and set the cup down carefully into the center of it, balancing it perfectly there, his flesh hand just barely touching it with its fingertips to keep it steady. He moved both hands forward together, toward Darcy, offering the cup in that way— in what he felt was an appropriately formal-looking gesture, his eyes twinkling with gentle humor. 

She smiled at that, relaxing a little— it was just Bucky… it was just _them_ … sharing a cup. Trying not to touch. Getting married on an alien planet. No biggie. Not _that_ much weirder than some of the stuff they’d seen and done. Right? 

She successfully took the cup from his hand, though her brain unhelpfully supplied her with a movie-like vision of dropping it, spilling the liquid everywhere as the vessel exploded into a crash of wine-splattered shards… but no such thing happened. 

Her hand only shook a little as she held the cup, and she took a modest sip of her own, looking up at him through her eyelashes as she held it to her lips. The liquid was warm and sweet— a little like the wine from the night before, but more complex, with notes of plum and ginger. 

She swallowed and rubbed her lips together and then looked to the assistant, who nodded slightly to her as he held out his hands, offering to take the cup back from her. She handed it over, respectfully, and then moved her forearms back over her chest self-consciously, still trying to hide her breasts, aware of the panel of aliens watching everything, studying them like specimens in a lab experiment. 

Steve and Loki were watching closely as well, scouting for any sign of ill effects, especially in Darcy. Steve knew that Bucky’s version of the serum would protect him from most toxins, but Darcy had no such safeguard. 

She seemed fine, so far— just a little uncomfortable without her sweatshirt on. Steve had never known Darcy to feel self-conscious about her body, at least not outwardly, and it bothered him that the attitudes and customs of this world were having an effect on her. This version of her— subdued, quiet, bridled— was such a narrow slice of the vibrant, bawdy, utterly brilliant woman he was proud to call friend, and it made him wonder how many potential Darcys there were on this world who were being confined to such tiny social spaces, not permitted to reveal their real fire nor share their true gifts. 

As the young alien returned the ceramic cup to the tray, the tall one continued his formal intonations: “As you have sipped from the same cup, so shall you move together into the life that stretches ahead,” he said. “As your days together shall be bound, so shall your breaths, your blood, the course of your essence— all shall be as one.”

He nodded to the assistant, who picked up the bowl with the mashed-up fruit, and quietly stepped forward with it. The sludgy mixture within was a deep purple color, like a dense blackberry jam. 

“Proceed,” said the tall one. “Show them the way.” 

“You must dip your thumb into the _e'lo’alid_ ,” the boy said to Bucky, who was listening closely. “Use it to make your mark upon your… lady. Here.” He indicated a spot on his own forehead, between where his eyebrows would be, if he’d had any. 

“Then pull it down,” he continued, “in a single line, unbroken. You must draw it down to her nexus, and then place your palm against it, like this.” Again, he demonstrated on his own body, drawing an imaginary line down the center of his face and neck, ending with a palm over his chest, although on him it was lower down than where a human’s heart would be. “You must neither pause once you begin to pull down, nor may you break the line.” 

Bucky had watched it all intently, and took a fortifying breath as the boy held the bowl out to him. The boy did it formally, carefully, with both hands— just as he’d done with the wine. Bucky shifted his weight, planting his boots a little further apart on the floor to steady himself, and accepted the bowl. 

“You may begin whenever you are ready,” said the boy, as he stepped back, lowering his gaze. 

Bucky could see in his peripheral vision that the panelists were also slightly averting their gaze, even as they continued to witness. Whatever this meant to them, it was clearly something they felt uncomfortable viewing directly. 

Bucky licked his lips nervously; somehow the reluctance of the aliens to look at them openly as they did this gave it even more weight— made him feel even _more_ exposed rather than less so, and he could feel part of him wanting to dissociate, to drift off and view himself from the outside. He pushed the feeling away, shut his eyes for a moment, breathing in, finding his center… 

When he opened his eyes again he was ready. 

He dipped his flesh thumb into the bowl, coating it with a generous dollop of the purple mash. It was warm, and had the consistency of a thick paste, and stained his skin a deep bluish-purple on contact. 

He turned to look at Darcy, who was gazing up at him— he could see that she was nervous now too, but her eyes were trusting, just as they always were with him, and that gave him the courage he needed. He pressed his lips together, concentrating, trying to keep his slightly shaking hand steady as he reached out toward her forehead with it, holding his breath, not wanting to make a mistake… 

He pressed his thumb to her skin, committing to it, letting the mashed fruit stick, held there by the pad of his thumb, right between her eyebrows, staining her there with a smudge of dark purple. 

She couldn’t help the little intake of breath when she felt it— it was warm and wet, and there was something oddly intimate about it, and it was strange, how after all the ways he’d known every inch of her body with all of his, that she could be so affected by the simple touch of his thumb. 

He held there a moment, his thumb still resting between her brows, checking to make sure she was all right, the substance not having any immediate toxic effect. He could see the confirmation in her eyes— _so far, so good_ — and he took another steadying breath, pressed his lips together, and then focused as he began to slowly draw the pigment down her face. 

He traced the deep bluish-purple line down the bridge of her nose, the pad of his thumb never breaking contact, never pausing in its course, the rest of his fingers curled into his palm… 

She lifted her head slightly as he reached the tip of her nose, and he pivoted underneath without pausing, down the soft groove above her lips, his own mouth falling open as his thumb continued to drag down, pulling her full lips apart as he bisected them on the way down… 

She tilted her head up a little more as he traveled down the midline of her chin, and then he pulled the purple line down the soft skin of her neck, running neatly between the twin knobbed ends of her collarbones at her throat… 

And he was slowing as he dragged the remaining smear of purple down her sternum to its endpoint, at the shadow of her cleavage, where he finally stopped— finally allowed himself to breathe again— and having succeeded, he rotated his wrist to place his big, warm palm gently against her chest, his fingertips fanning out… 

He stared at his hand for a moment, where it lay pressed against her, feeling the pounding of her heart beneath it, and then slowly lifted his eyes to take in her lovely face, now looking more like an illustration from a medieval fairy tale, a princess in a pagan wedding, and she should have a ring of flowers in her hair, a verdant woodland as her backdrop— not this cold, alien courtroom. 

But the setting mattered little as they continued to stare at one another— it was like time had stopped; everything in the room condensed down to just the two of them, and he could feel the thrum of his own heart meshing with hers, hear the whoosh of his pulse in his head, barely making out the soprano voice of the boy who was now offering the bowl to Darcy, instructing her to do likewise as Bucky kept his palm steady against her chest. 

Darcy dragged her eyes away from Bucky long enough to dip her own little thumb into the mash, and then, stretching her arm up high to reach his forehead, pressed it there, between his dark eyebrows, and then slowly pulled it down the bridge of his strong nose, through the prickle of hair below it, and then further, moving down his soft lips, the motion pulling them apart just as he’d done to hers… 

Down through the darker stubble in the cleft of his chin, a place she’d rested her fingertip many times before— only this time, instead of pausing there, she continued, down the underside of his jaw, the purple line of pigment re-emerging where the deep, scrubby brown of his beard ended, tracing over the gentle bump of his Adam’s apple, down between his collarbone, following the groove between the muscles of his chest, and ending at the dusting of hair that covered his sternum, using her thumb to tug down on the shirt a little, to reach the spot she’d kissed innumerable times, at his center. 

She stopped, held there with her thumb as she tipped her face back up to look at him, locking her eyes onto his as she turned her hand to press her palm there, against the steady thump of his heart. 

It was electric, like she’d completed the circuit— each of them connected to the other, their pulses almost synchronizing, the energy like a tangible thing, running through the parallel lines of their arms, firing up all their nerves. 

She could feel all eyes on them now, and they may as well have been standing there naked, for how personal it felt— incredibly intimate, after all the restrictions… the regulations against even the most casual touching in public… 

She could understand it now, from their point of view… why the father hadn’t wanted his daughter to watch them do it… it was a lot, for this culture. She would never have guessed how heady it could be— the simple trace of a single digit down the line of her lover’s body, marking him with the path of her touch and ending at the tangible thrum of his heart, holding her hand there against the proof of his existence, his vitality… 

Three rows back, Loki had watched closely as they’d taken their sips of the wine, looking for any sign of toxicity, and had continued to observe, with increasing discomfort, as the ceremony continued, the whole thing feeling too voyeuristic, as Darcy and her man had marked each other with the ritual dye and pressed their hands against one another. He’d found himself instinctively averting his eyes, much like the panelists, though hardly, like them, from some type of prudery. 

It was plain, to anyone with half a brain, to see that it was _real_ for them— that whatever it may have started as, this ritual now had meaning for them, and something about it made him uneasy in a way he couldn’t easily explain… 

It felt as though they were all intruding on an intimate moment, something not meant for anyone else, and he found his ordinarily cynical self uncharacteristically silent… finding no pleasure in the tearing down of their apparently euphoric communion, even in his own head. 

He glanced to the Captain, still standing ready, a polite distance away. Unlike the others, he was fearlessly, unabashedly taking in this ritual binding of his companions, and Loki was surprised to see that the man actually had the hint of tears collecting in his eyes, so moved was the sturdy soldier by the weight of emotion swirling between his friends. 

Again, as much as Loki wished he could scoff at it, he instead found himself looking quickly away and then down, swallowing as he set about studying the intricate patterns on the tile beneath his feet. 

Steve wasn’t the only one obviously affected. As Bucky stood there, connected to Darcy’s heart with his hand, and she to his, no idea what was next, but content to inhabit the moment as long as they were allowed it, he let himself drown in it completely… his gaze never wavering from the big blue eyes of his girl, his beautiful girl— his ally, his partner, his best friend, his _bride_ … 

As he watched the lights of the room dance in her eyes as she gazed back at him, he could see them filling with tears, one of them spilling over, and he longed to reach out with his other hand and catch it with his finger, to hold her face in his hands and kiss her, feel the warmth of her breath against him. 

He could see she was just as moved as he was, the love in her face reflecting back to him everything he was feeling— an almost overwhelming swell of connection, tenderness, fidelity and devotion— and he couldn’t help it: the words burst out unbidden, almost a plea… 

“I don’t want to forget this.” 

And his chest rose and fell with his quickening breath, and he tried to say it again as his eyes moved back and forth between hers, but no sound came out, even as his lips opened to speak, and his eyes were stinging… 

Her pretty, plump lips wobbled a little, and another tear fell, this time from the other eye, and she smiled then, bravely, and tried to make a joke, because that’s what she did, that’s how she coped with everything— from minor things like tripping over a crack in the sidewalk, to this: being overcome with emotion after being ritually marked by the love of her life in an alien wedding ceremony. 

“Well, look at it this way,” she said, her eyes spilling over again even as she smiled. “We’re gonna be able to get married— for the first time— _twice_. We’re gonna get all those first-time feels, for real, again. Who else gets that?” And her voice broke on the last word, her breath shuddering a bit as she inhaled, her eyes never leaving his, and finally whispered. “Nobody, that’s who. Just us. You and me.” 

He smiled back at her, their hands still outstretched and pressed against each other, connecting the pulse of their bodies, their breathing synced up on the inhale and exhale, and he swore he could feel it like a physical thing— his love for her moving through his arm, into her, just as hers traveled up her arm into him, and he wondered if the wine had contained some kind of drug, some hallucinogen, or if this was just how every man felt, as he gazed into the face of his beloved as they were wed. 

All this time, the tall alien and his assistant had waited patiently, a respectful distance away, the boy having returned the bowl of dye to the tray, and now the tall one turned to him and said, “They are ready. Bring the bond.” 

The boy nodded and lifted something from another earthen bowl— it looked like a narrow length of blue and silver fabric— thicker than a ribbon, but not as sturdy as a rope— and he approached them with it, and held it between them. “You may release the connection and join hands,” he said, quickly adding, “the same hand that was upon the other.” 

They lifted their hands from one another’s hearts, meeting in the middle, clasping together, almost like they were going to arm-wrestle in mid-air. Her little fingers sank into the spaces between the thick strength of his as their palms pressed together, and she could see Bucky’s shoulders rise and fall as he took another deep breath. 

They could both feel it— the weight of the act— the permission granted to touch in such a way at last, publicly, after all the prohibitions and warnings, and it loaded the otherwise simple act with a gravity and a warmth that was befitting what was meant to be a first moment of joining in such a way. 

The assistant moved forward then, and carefully but swiftly wound the length of ribbon around them, a bit like a medieval handfasting. He started where their hands pressed together, and then looped the ribbon down and around to wrap and entwine their wrists and forearms, binding them together in an intricate criss-cross of sparkling color and reflected light. 

Satisfied, he stepped well back, with a single warning— “ _Hold steady_ ,”— and then once again took up his formal posture to the side as his master moved up to take his place. 

The tall alien shut his eyes, pressing his palms together, and Darcy recognized it as his preparing to once again do some form of magic, and when he opened his eyes, the black orbs of them stared at nothing while a burst of heat came from between his hands and rushed out to envelop them where they were bound together by the ribbon. 

It felt like they’d plunged their arms into scalding water, and Darcy flinched a little, but she was determined to heed the boy’s words— to hold steady— and then they watched, incredulous, as the ribbon itself seemed to disappear into their joined flesh, sinking into it, painless but for the heat, and for a moment she could see the memory of it there, tattooed into their skin— shimmering, luminous, beautiful— before it disappeared completely. 

They were both breathing heavily, hearts pounding, and Bucky whispered to her, “You okay?” and she nodded, still staring at their forearms, which looked completely normal— unblemished, as though nothing at all had happened— though she could still feel the lingering tingle from the heat that was now receding. 

“You shall bear this proof of your commitment for all time,” said the tall one. “Only death may erase it.” Then he stepped back and bowed to the judge, who nodded to him in thanks. 

“You may lower your hands,” said the judge, looking directly at the two humans once again. “It is done.” He shook his head then, and mumbled, “I must admit, I’m a little surprised. I wasn’t entirely sure it would work.” To the tall alien, he said, “I thank you for your assistance on such short notice. You may leave.” 

The tall alien nodded to his assistant, who picked up the tray. With an elegant hand gesture, the tall one vanished the stone pedestal, and then the two of them glided almost silently over to the side exit, where the guards opened the doors for them, and then they both left the room without another word. 

Bucky cleared his throat in the quiet. He felt sleepy, dazed, not ready to leave the warm connection he was feeling with Darcy, to be pulled back into the lifeless reality of the alien courtroom. 

“Can I, uh… is it okay if I keep holdin’ her hand now?” he asked. They’d allowed their arms to drop down between them, without actually letting go of one another, as they’d turned to face the panel once again. He was hoping they’d say it was okay, because he wasn’t sure he’d be able to let go. If anything, he needed more— to hold her, to kiss her— to turn to her, thread his hand into her hair, pull her face to him and share her breath, to taste her, but he knew all of that was impossible. For now, holding her hand was as much as he could hope for. 

“Yes, of course,” said the judge, almost dismissively. “She belongs to you now. No other may claim her, and correspondingly, your claim may offend no-one.” He lifted his hand and made his official V sign with his fingers, and sketched a quick circle in the air. “The binding is achieved,” he declared, almost as an afterthought. 

Steve blew out a breath beside them, relieved that they’d all come through unharmed, and he turned in a small half-circle, raised his eyebrows to Loki, needing to share the sentiment with someone. Loki gave him that same little nod as before— understanding. Agreeing. 

The judge, meanwhile, had raised his hand again to beckon to a double grouping of guards standing by. To one group of three, he said, “At the appointed time, you will escort them to their chambers— so they may… seal the bond.” He gestured to the lead guard of that group, who approached the bench. 

The judge spoke softly to him, but they could all still clearly hear his instructions in the quiet room. “You will apprise them of the requirements, if need be,” he murmured. “We do not know their ways.” 

He rose his voice once again to a normal level to instruct the other group of three. “See that the proper victuals are provided— both to the anointed and to the… to her kinsman. We shall hold here until their chamber is ready.” 

The lead guard from that group nodded curtly, and the three of them stamped their spears in acknowledgement before briskly leaving the room. 

The lead guard from the first group bowed formally to the judge, venturing a question. “And what of the Asgardian?” 

They all turned and looked to Loki, who had risen from his place in the third row. The father and daughter remained seated in the rear of the room, their faces schooled in practiced detachment, like a duo of bronze statues placed there to simulate witnesses. 

“Return him to his chamber,” said the judge. “The… female’s kinsman may join him for food and drink, if need be, during the vigil.” 

“Understood,” said the guard. He returned to his place, standing ready with the other two guards of his group. 

The judge looked at the humans again and cleared his throat. “You may put your… overgarments back on.” He said it like he was displeased they hadn’t already done so. 

Steve immediately stepped up to hand over Darcy’s sweatshirt, and Bucky helped her to pull it on over her head, trying not to disturb the smudge of color running down the center of her face. 

They were smiling at each other like a couple of lovesick dummies, enjoying the excuse to touch each other a little more, and Bucky again resisted the urge to kiss here right there, in front of everyone. After settling the sweatshirt onto her body, he did pause to brush his thumb against her cheek— the tiny gesture, and the tenderness in his eyes, telling her how he felt, even if he couldn’t properly show it. 

He stepped back and glanced over to Steve, who was holding his button-down shirt out to him, almost shyly, and he could see the other man’s eyes tracing the line of purple dye that now ran down his face and neck, ending next to his heart. 

He took the shirt from him, stuck his arms into the sleeves, pulling it up over his shoulders, and then Darcy stepped up and started to button it for him, a gesture of casual intimacy that he’d never really thought about before— there was nothing inherently sexy about buttons, and yet you’d never think to step up and button someone else’s shirt unless you had some sort of… connection to them. 

“Glad you guys are okay,” said Steve, as Darcy finished up with the last button on Bucky’s shirt and smoothed her hand down the placket. Darcy turned and grinned at him, and he could see that she’d been about to step forward and hug him, but then she stopped herself, stepping back toward Bucky’s body instead. If holding hands with your ‘intended’ was a problem, there was no telling what hugging a man— even a _kinsman_ — while bound to another would provoke, and she apparently wasn't going to take any chances. 

Steve made an itching gesture near his collar, more of a fidget than anything else. “Are we free to go?” he asked the judge. “I, uh… I think we could all stand to rest a little, and eat, if that’s all right.” 

“I quite agree,” said the judge. “Your rooms are being prepared as we speak. As soon as they are ready, you will follow these men,” he said, indicating the trio of guards standing by. “We shall reconvene tomorrow…” 

He trailed off, and looked down at the stack of papers on his desk. “What do we have in the morning?” he asked, looking left and right, at the other panel members. 

They all shuffled through their own papers, and then one of them spoke up. “There is the matter of the tree-trimming violation at the Chesai estate,” he said. 

The judge sighed and rested his jowly face on his fist as he drummed the fingers on his other hand against the desktop— a very human-like set of behaviors. 

“Yes,” he finally said. “That must take precedence, unfortunately. Mid-day then?” He looked left and right again, waiting for the approval of the other members, and then nodded and announced it formally, doing the formal hand motion again, though with less enthusiasm than before. “We shall reconvene then, at the meridian, to satisfy the remaining conditions of this matter.” 

The judge stood then, wearily, as did the other panel members, some of them mumbling to one another. Darcy glanced back, catching Loki’s eye, and he began to make his way up the aisle to join their group. She could see the alien woman staring at her, from the back of the room, a different look on her face than she’d seen before… was it awe? Envy? Disgust? Darcy couldn’t begin to imagine what the woman was thinking, having witnessed all of it. 

The father was easier to read— he wasn’t even trying to hide his obvious repugnance, and when Darcy’s eyes met his for a moment, he quickly looked away as though the sight of her alone was offensive and painful. 

Darcy rolled her eyes internally and looked instead to Loki, who’d come up beside her, though he was careful not to stand too close to her. She was getting the impression that now that she was a ‘bound’ woman, she was basically Bucky’s property, and any familiarity toward her would be seen as a personal insult to his ‘claim’… 

She could see Loki’s eyes tracing the mark that ran down the midline of her face. He had an unhappy look about him, and he pressed his lips together, exhaling through his nose. 

“I am… sorry,” he said, keeping his voice low, his eyes glancing nervously about them, perhaps unsure if he was even allowed to speak to her now. He towered over her, and it afforded them some small measure of privacy, his back slightly turned to the panelists. “For making you do this. I did not know it would become so… complicated.” 

“It’s okay,” she said, and she resisted the urge to reach out and squeeze his hand reassuringly. God, it was going to be nice to get back to Earth. To indulge her tactile inclinations once again. It was eye-opening, how much she’d taken it for granted— here, where such things were forbidden, it was like having the worst itch that you couldn’t scratch… or if you did scratch, they’d magic your balls off. 

“It’s not like they made us do anything awful or embarrassing,” she added. “And there’s nothing that’s gonna mess up our mind-wipe, so…” 

She could see him looking at the line on her face again, and she instinctively reached up to touch it where it was now dry and crusty between her eyebrows. “Oh god, this isn’t permanent, is it?” she whispered. “I mean, wiping my memory’s not gonna do much good if I gotta walk around with a purple line on my face for all eternity. Be kinda hard to explain _that_ to our friends…” 

“The heart-line, no,” said Loki. “I’ve not seen others here with such a mark, so I can only surmise it comes clean with time.” He hesitated then, like he was holding something back, and she noted it, wondering what was bothering him. 

“What is it,” she said finally, when he remained silent. “I can tell there’s something you’re not telling me.” 

“The binding,” he said, exhaling. “The… the cord…” 

“The ribbon? Yeah, that was pretty cool,” she said, lifting her left forearm, so that she could run her fingers over the skin there, still remembering how it’d looked, the shimmering glow of it before it’d vanished. “I could feel it— like, I could swear it actually sank into my skin before it disappeared.” 

“It, ah… it did not disappear,” said Loki. 

“What?” 

Before he could reply, the three guards who’d been assigned to escort them approached, a distinctly displeased air about them. Sure enough, she got the stink-eye from all three of them, likely for the way she was speaking so casually to Loki. The leader gave Bucky a significant look that seemed to communicate something along the lines of, ‘ _You gonna get your woman under control there?_ ’ 

Bucky had been talking quietly to Steve, and had paid little mind to Darcy’s giving attention to Loki. In any case, he was never one to ‘get his woman under control’— if anything, he enjoyed watching her work a busy room, chat people up, and have a good time, while he generally hung back and kept to himself. In this case, though, he played along, nodding to the guard, and grabbed her hand, pulling her close to his side. Loki, meanwhile, took a step back, putting both his hands up, palms out, in a show of deference. 

“We have received word that your rooms are ready,” said the lead guard. “You must come with us now. There is the yet the remainder of the ceremony to complete.” He sourly looked between Darcy and Loki again, his disapproval still plain to see. 

“That’s, like, private, though, right?” said Darcy. They’d not said it outright, but she’d assumed, by the way the judge had spoken of it, that the remaining part of the ceremony involved some kind of formal consummation. Which was fine with her— she’d been dying to get into Bucky’s pants ever since Steve had interrupted them on the couch the day before— but it suddenly occurred to her that in some cultures, consummations were social affairs, with official witnesses literally standing by to make sure the act actually happened and that the lady was ‘unspoiled’, among other things… of course in this case, they already knew she was ‘spoiled’, so who knew what was expected… 

“You guys aren’t gonna, like, stand around our bed or anything are you? I’m sure I heard the judge-guy say it was ‘private’…” 

“Of course it is private,” said the guard brusquely, sounding greatly offended, and he held his hand out, pointing with all four fingers toward the main exit, indicating that they should begin walking. 

“We are not barbarians,” he continued, as they followed him to the big double doors, passing the father and daughter on the way. They were still seated, and kept their eyes strictly forward as the humans passed. 

“Your kinsman may, of course, keep his vigil,” continued the guard, “as is his right, until it is confirmed. Food and drink will be provided for him in the Asgardian’s chambers, should he require rejuvenation while he waits.” 

The guards flanking the big doors stamped their spears and swung them open, granting them exit, and once their group was through and making their way back down the grand hallway, the lead guard suddenly stopped and bowed his head slightly as he spoke to Bucky, not making eye contact with any of them. 

“Forgive me, but we do not know your… customs. The, ah… the length of time required for the… for the completion. If the provisions supplied are not sufficient…” 

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” said Bucky, while Darcy tried not to laugh at the thought of Steve having to sit outside their lodgings, waiting, while she and Bucky went at it on the other side of the walls— not so different from what they’d done to him back at the cabin, when they’d sent him out to chop wood. At least that time, he hadn’t known why until afterward. 

They descended the hundred-and-something steps in silence, and were making their way through the city again, when she finally remembered what Loki had said to her, back in the courtroom— that the binding ribbon hadn’t actually disappeared. She looked down at her arms as they walked… examined her wrists, her forearms, felt the skin with her fingertips. She couldn’t see anything, feel anything there. Her skin looked and felt completely normal. Maybe just a lingering warmth, but nothing worrisome. 

She wanted to ask him to elaborate— to explain what he’d meant, but the guards dropped him off first, at a cottage identical to their own, about three doors down. 

“You may wait here, if you like,” the lead guard said to Steve. “Rest, eat, drink. Or, you may accompany your companions to their door, and take up your vigil there. The judge has instructed me to respect your own custom in this.” 

“Uh…” Steve glanced to Bucky, who was pressing his lips together, trying not to laugh. They weren’t the greatest options: sit outside the door while they consummated the marriage, or hang out with Loki. “I guess I could eat,” he finally said, grudgingly. 

“It is acceptable,” said the guard. “You are free to move between the two dwellings, as needed, for your responsibilities.” 

“Thank you,” said Steve formally, trying to sound as though he considered the job an honor. 

“So, uh… I guess we’ll see you later,” said Bucky, again trying not to laugh as he grabbed Darcy’s hand. 

“Just come knock on the door in a little while,” said Darcy, and then mouthed, “ _Sorry,_ ” to Steve, sincerely, as the guards led them away, leaving him alone there with Loki. 

When they got back to their own cottage, and the guard did the magic thing with the slab to gain entrance the courtyard, she realized that Steve wouldn’t even be able to _get_ to their door— not without Loki or another guard to deal with the magically-controlled entryways. 

Two of the guards remained there by the opening in the wall, while the lead guard escorted them past the two little fountains and right up to their front door, and then nodded formally. “I will leave you here, then,” he said, politely. “Is there anything else you require from me?” 

“Uh…” Bucky scratched at the side of his neck awkwardly, a replica of the same nervous gesture in Steve… mannerisms forged decades ago, in another reality… “Is there… anything we should know? About the expectations for this… for completing the rites? We gotta do anything in particular other than…” 

The guard looked embarrassed, unable to meet their eyes, but nodded in acknowledgment of the question. “The marks must remain on your faces, and… well. Until it is complete, and you ritually cleanse yourselves of the _e’lo’alid_. Right now you are… anointed. Once the… joining is achieved, you may cleanse yourselves… and then all will know it is… done.” 

“Ah,” said Bucky, feeling bad for the guard’s discomfort. “I appreciate the information. Thank you.” 

“If there is any… dissatisfaction with her condition, you may petition the court for a review at the appointed time tomorrow,” the guard added helpfully. “Do not attempt to resolve it through her kinsman.” 

“Uh, okay,” said Bucky. “I understand.” 

“Is that all,” asked the guard, looking as though he desperately wanted to leave. “Do you require…further instruction?” 

“Nope,” said Bucky, giving him an encouraging nod. “I can, uh… I can take it from here.” Darcy squeezed his hand, and he could practically feel her vibrating with humor next to him, and it was giving him the giggles as well, and he bit the inside of his lip, trying not to laugh. It was just as well, because the other part of him was fighting the real need to just scoop her into his arms and kiss the daylights out of her. 

The guard made a little noise in his throat, an acknowledgment, and said, very formally, “Then I wish you felicitations on your binding and extend my wishes for a most fruitful union.” He bowed formally to Bucky, and then to Darcy. “My lady,” he said, the words coming out automatically. His smooth, hairless brow pinched a little after he said it, like he still hadn’t quite figured out what she was, or whether she merited that title. 

With a swirl of his cape, he turned then, and rejoined the other two guards, who were still waiting patiently at the other end of the little courtyard, and he nodded to them, stepped through, and replaced the stone slab, sealing the humans in. And then, at long last, they turned and marched away, leaving Bucky and Darcy, finally—blessedly— alone. 

They just stood there for a moment, holding hands, listening to the crunch of the guards’ boots fading away in the distance, and then all was silent again, and Darcy turned and looked up at him, biting her lip, her eyes tracing the purple line that ran down his face, dried and crumbly now like hers, more like oil pastel than crushed fruit. 

She was about to say something like, “Well, this is a little awkward,” meaning, the whole _time-to-consummate-the-marriage_ thing, and it was weird, because they didn’t _do_ awkward with each other— had never _been_ awkward, unless you counted those early days when they’d first met, and done a bit of the ‘ _do you like me that way?_ ’ dance, which had barely had a chance to start before it’d been cut short by all sorts of fun things, like Bucky being triggered into Winter Soldier mode, and both of them almost dying after falling out of a Quinjet… but ever since then it’d just been love, and love, and love… 

And while she was pondering all of that, Bucky’s chest was rising and falling as he looked at her like he’d been fasting for a week and she was his favorite thing in the world to eat— he wasn’t feeling awkward at _all_ — and before she could say another word, he’d lifted her up, his prosthetic arm sweeping beneath the curve of her ass to support her as his flesh hand pushed her hair back from her face, and then his lips were crashing into hers as he swiveled to press her against the big wooden doors, and he was devouring her, his flesh hand holding her head to him as his lips tasted her mouth, her face, her neck, whatever he could reach, and she was gasping, her breath coming heavy as she surrendered to him, her body responding quickly to the urgency of his need… 

He was working his hand into her shirt, and she could feel the flush of damp heat between her legs, and she distantly realized that they were still outside, could possibly be seen from the street, and she ripped her mouth away from his with a filthy, wet sound, and she could taste the smear of fruit on his lips… 

“Inside,” she said, panting out the words… “Gotta… we need to get inside.” 

His eyes were hooded, like he was drunk on the feel of her skin, her mouth, the scent of her, and he leaned in, stole one more kiss, his lips warm and soft, tasting her deeply, smiling against her mouth when she rolled her hips against him, and then his flesh hand moved down behind her, feeling for the heavy iron handles on the door, and he found them, pushing the door in, still holding her up with his other arm, and once they were through, he turned and shoved the door shut with his boot, swinging the weight of it home with a resounding _thud_ before they both tumbled against it, Darcy’s back up against the sturdy wood. 

For a few frozen seconds they just looked at each other as he held her, breathing loudly, lips parted, and then they were scrambling, fumbling frantically, Darcy working his belt buckle open as Bucky popped the button on her stretch jeans and pulled the zipper down, trying to yank the fabric down around her ass, which was impossible with her legs still wrapped around him… 

He pulled her completely into his chest, holding her to him with one arm, her legs dangling in the air for a second while he ripped her jeans down far enough for her to shake them the rest of the way down, underwear along with them, but they caught on her shoes, and he practically growled, lifting her higher so he could reach them himself, tugging everything off and tossing it aside, and then he pulled her legs back around his body, braced her back against the door, and shoved his own jeans down far enough to pull himself out… 

He had just enough self-control to check her with his fingers first, and she was warm and slick and ready to go, and she was already undulating, her hands in his hair, whispering his name… 

He crouched a little to guide himself in, and then pushed up, adjusting his stance, his arms now under her thighs, holding her up and open as he pulled back slightly and then slid further in, and she exhaled, an open smile on her face, her eyes falling shut when he bottomed out, his body right up against her… 

And he only paused there for a second, the little whimper she made spurring him on, and he began to move in earnest, picking up the pace in a steady climb until they were both gasping, moving against each other roughly, just acting out of pure need, her arms twining around his neck as she held on for dear life… 

Bucky didn’t roll like this often, driving into her so hard and fast, like a race to catch something just out of reach, grabbing at some elusive relief that could only be found inside the heat of her body, fleeting, gone too soon if he didn’t get there quickly enough… 

Most days, he preferred it slow and sweaty, drawing out their pleasure, riding swells of the slow friction of skin on skin, treating her to an exquisitely torturous kind of lovemaking that she’d never known before him… 

But every now and then he came at her with a different kind of need, one he usually kept contained, still afraid of being too rough— even after all these years— scared he would get lost in it… hurt her… in spite of her assurances that she wasn’t going to break— that she liked it, feeling his passion— that she trusted him to know his own strength, to pull back if he needed to… 

He’d unleashed it now, something about the ceremony tripping some wire in him, something almost feral, an edge of desperation, needing to quench it inside her, and he chased it, completely abandoned, vocalizing on every fervid thrust… 

His pants had fallen to his ankles, pooled around his boots as he kept up the relentless pace, his hands on her back the only thing keeping him from slamming her into the rough wood of the door, and he could feel that she was close, her thighs shaking, clenching around him as he tried to reel himself in, slow it down and draw it out just a little longer… 

She was moaning in that way he loved, a loud groan at the end of every exhale, letting him know how good he was making her feel, and he could hear it better now that he’d slowed down, and his dick was as tight, as tense as it’d ever been, dragging slowly against her slick warmth as he pulled almost all the way out and then took his time sliding back in, and _God_ she felt so good… 

“ _Bucky… ‘m so close…_ ” 

He pushed her against the wall, using it to support her as he moved his right arm out from under her thigh so he could touch her right where she needed him, playing her slowly, up one side and down the other with this thumb, as he pushed all the way in again, staying there, flush, grinding a little against her, the way she liked, and then he buried his face into the sweat of her neck as she cried out and fell apart around him… 

He hung on, waiting, as she rode out her fluttering waves, and he was smiling, open mouthed, as he listened to all of her noises as she clenched around him, squeezing, giving herself aftershocks, and then he couldn’t wait any longer, all of her little shivers within drawing him deeper, and with just three quick strokes of his own he was there too, gripping her ass as he shuddered and stilled, spilling into her with his own deep cry of relief… 

He held steady there, unmoving, for just a bit longer, both of them panting and gasping for air, before he sagged a little and slipped out, gently lowering her back to the ground, and then they both sort of crumbled, falling together to the floor, laughing about it, and then collapsed onto their backs, still working to come down, and she rolled into him, her hand on his chest as he scooped her closer into his body with his arm.

There was a thick, deep brown, flokati-style rug just a few inches away; it had appeared on the floor since they’d left the room earlier that day, and he nudged them over, off the hard floor, until they were lying on the rug instead, soft and warm and comfortable. 

“Sorry,” he said, when he could finally speak again, swallowing roughly. “Didn’t… didn’t mean it to go that way…” 

“Don’t be,” she said, scoffing, as she burrowed into him. “That was amazing. _God_ , Bucky.” She changed her voice to something more playful. “Or should I say, ‘ _Husband_ ’…” 

He could feel how his grin was just about gonna break his face as he heard the word, and God if it wasn’t gonna make him hard again already, rolling the word around in his head, even if it was only temporary, but he was gonna enjoy it while it lasted, and he looked down at her and let her see the smile, see how happy it made him as he answered her, “Okay, _Wife_ …” 

And then she was rolling completely atop him, crawling up the little bit she needed to reach him with her lips, and she kissed him long and sweet, sighing into his mouth, happy, and then pulled back, reached up to trace the stained purple line on his face with her fingertip. 

“This looks good on you,” she said. “I mean, you were only supernova-level hot before, but with this stuff on your face you’re pushing the legal limits…” 

“Right back at you, doll,” he said, his own hand reaching up to do the same, feathering the line from her forehead down to her soft lips. He pushed his hips up against her where she was straddling him, and she grinned as she felt it, how he was ready to go again already… 

He didn’t think she’d be up for it again so soon, and he was right— she needed a little time, and he was happy to give it, just stroking her sweaty back lazily after she’d rid herself of the bulky sweatshirt and then the rest of her clothing, and had taken the two minutes to pull his heavy boots off for him, tossing them one-at-a-time toward the doors, and then tugged his pants off the rest of the way… 

She’d tried to unbutton his shirt, but he’d just pulled her into his arms, greedy, impatient, wanting her close, and she’d acquiesced, collapsing back into him, making little noises of contentment as she lay against his chest, her hand tunneling into the chamois to feel the contours of his body. 

He almost fell asleep there on the soft rug with her body draped over him, completely happy and relaxed, the light in the room low but for the flicker of the hearth that was still burning. But after a half-hour of drifting and breathing together, she’d slowly lifted up, stretching and grinning and moving her legs to straddle him once again, ready to go, reaching down to grasp him, work him back up, and he was right there with her, with hardly any effort at all… 

She joked about his being a ‘ _force of nature_ ’ as she lifted up to position herself, and then sank down slowly around him, controlling it, her eyes locked with his, watching him the whole way down, her body bare but for the dark line he’d marked her with, and he bit his lip as he lay there, completely surrendered to her. 

She seated herself onto him fully and shut her eyes, and they just stayed there a while, feeling each other, basking in it, and when they finally started to move, they took it slow, making it last this time, sinking into the emotions, wrapping around one another like the strands of the ribbon… 

Loving each other, unhurried, unworried… 

Entwined, unbreakable… 

Bound.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, over at Loki's place...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: There is what some may feel is borderline sexual harassment in this chapter. It's not intended to be upsetting (by the perpetrator)-- more of a misunderstanding-- but I felt I should warn because the dynamic could be triggery.  
> \------------------------

Loki’s quarters were essentially the same as the accommodations Steve had stayed in the night before, with Bucky and Darcy: there was a common area with a hearth, customizable furnishings, and separate, magically-controlled doorways leading to an adjacent bedroom and bathroom. It looked as though Loki had spent some time decorating, having materialized a variety of comfortable chairs, ottomans, and end tables— enough for a group, even though he couldn’t have been expecting any guests. 

There was a large table in the center of the main room, but unlike the coffee-table option he’d enabled for them in the other cottage, this one was low to the ground, meant to be kneeled at as one ate or worked. There was an impressive array of food and drink laid out on it, waiting for them, and Steve made a beeline for it. 

Loki hung back, cautious, feigning a desire to remove the small leather satchel he’d been wearing diagonally across his chest. It was a transparent excuse to remain by the door— unworthy of someone with his diplomatic experience, but he’d been off his game for some time, and more frequently found himself falling back on the fumbling coping mechanisms of his youth, before he’d honed his skill in masking his own discomfort. 

He slowly pulled the strap over his head and then set the satchel down on a sideboard by the front doors. Keeping his movements slow, he crouched down and set about unlacing and removing his simple leather boots, looking up from time to time, to quietly study the man he still referred to as ‘ _the Captain_ ,’ even inside his own head. 

Certainly by now he was well aware that the man’s name was _Steve_ , but he assumed such familiarity would be unwelcome… even though the humans all seemed perfectly content to address _him_ by his given name, without any further interest in granting him the dignity of a surname or title. 

Not that he could blame them; before he’d gone into hiding, he _had_ tended to go about pretentiously introducing himself as ‘ _Loki of Asgard_ ’— not as Loki _Odinson_ , which felt little more than a joke at this point, and certainly never as _Laufeyson_ , which, though technically correct, was practically an insult. 

He had no intention of honoring the creature who’d left him to die when he was but a babe… there’d been times he’d regretted luring his biological sire to his death, but only because it’d been, in the end, far too swift… there were things, had he been clearer of mind, that he should have liked to _say_ before sending that beast to Hel… 

Should he find himself, one day, again in a position to take up a legitimate surname, he’d prefer to re-style himself _Friggason_ , after his adoptive mother… but thus far the security to do so— to reveal his continued existence— remained beyond reach… perhaps would, evermore. Still, knowing the option was there, and that he would proudly take up her name, when and if he was ever free to live openly again… it was like a tiny glow of warmth in the core of his being, where he kept those private little pieces of himself that hadn’t been utterly shattered and remade… 

He’d gotten both the boots off, lining them up neatly next to the sideboard, and then, lacking further excuse to linger by the entryway, set himself to pacing slowly back and forth, as though lost in thought, when in fact he was still observing the Captain, who’d settled his large, muscled body onto the thick rug in front of the low table. 

The man seemed focused, intent— silently making a plate for himself, behaving almost as though he were alone in the room… completely ignoring Loki’s movements by the entryway. 

In fact, the Captain hadn’t uttered a single word since they’d been left there by the guards, other than his curt ‘ _Understood_ ,’ when they’d been reminded that ‘ _the Asgardian_ ’ was expected to stay put, even while the Captain was permitted to move between their two assigned dwellings: an idiotic set of instructions, seeing as the only man in their group capable of such access— that being himself— happened to be the one prohibited from doing so. 

Now that the Captain found himself restricted— by the lack of even rudimentary magical ability— to the confines of this shared space, the man seemed either entirely lost to his own thoughts, or deliberately, resolutely, conveying his disinclination to engage him socially. 

Loki couldn’t say that it was unexpected, but he nevertheless found himself disappointed by this childish disregard, particularly after the détente they’d enjoyed earlier, during the ceremony. 

He’d been taken by surprise, back in the courtroom, when the Captain had turned to him, clearly requesting some sign of his support, and he’d freely given it— eager, in fact, to do so— pleased to be _asked_. 

He’d known all along that the two soldiers— regardless of their enhancements— stood little chance of defending themselves or Darcy against the magical workings of their current hosts, should the situation became dire, and that they would be forced to rely on his help should it come to a fight… or, rather, more precisely, the need to _flee_ … 

He’d already been prepared to do so— to shelter them all within a temporary shield, and then teleport them to safety— but regardless, he couldn’t deny the simple pleasure he felt in actually being _invited_ to participate… it’d been too long since anyone had sought his voluntary assistance… in anything… 

Now, the Captain was pointedly ignoring his presence, examining the various provisions laid out for them, sniffing and sampling, tentatively tasting the assorted wines, nodding his head at some while grimacing at others. The man’s face was almost comically expressive, and Loki found himself studying it with a different kind of attention. 

He was objectively attractive, Loki realized, with some surprise. He’d been so busy teasing the man— some sort of defense mechanism, no doubt— that he hadn’t fully appreciated it until now. There were his physical attributes, of course— his body fit and capable, without crossing the line to the almost grotesque physique favored by some on Asgard— combined with a fairly conventional pulchritude of face… 

But Loki noticed the more subtle features as well… the gentle curve of honey-blonde eyelashes framing sparkling, cerulean eyes; the delicate bones that created the pleasing lines of his face; the dusting of auburn hair just beginning to darken his jaw… 

He was particularly drawn to the careful, almost delicate movements of the man’s fingers as he selected individual items from the trays. Loki could see by the way he moved— the way he manipulated objects with care— that those hands were used for far more than mindless brawling. The man touched and handled each item with the finesse and discernment of a craftsman— far from some brute beast, this was a man who was acquainted with tools of some sort, something that required skill and attention to detail, and Loki found himself wondering what occupation, what pastime he was seeing the evidence of… 

He was even more surprised to find that he was actually keen to find out… and not for some nefarious reason— to gain some sort of edge— but rather, quite simply, because the man’s complexity… interested him. 

Even more than his physical aspects, Loki found himself drawn in by what was _not_ so plain to see. Though the Captain certainly played at being the hardened soldier— a requirement of his profession— there was a gentleness to the man, as well as a sadness that seemed to color all of his expressions… even the smiles Loki had seen him give easily to his friends. 

There was something about it… that quiet, troubled nature… the lack of arrogance— such a common feature among men who fought for a living— that was undeniably enchanting, and Loki had a sudden urge to see if he could peel back some of the layers that such a man must certainly bear… 

Even now, he wore a subtle expression of worry, the twin lines that creased in parallel tracks between his eyebrows like a permanent fixture on his face. At the moment, they reflected his bewilderment as he puzzled over what and how to eat as he investigated the alien offerings. 

Loki found himself wondering if the man was even _capable_ of relaxing… of allowing himself to feel pleasure— or if he was one of those types who felt he had to _earn_ it, never quite deserving… 

At length, determined to break the ridiculous silence, Loki cleared his throat as he formulated something innocuous to say. They were presumably obliged to tarry here for the remainder of the afternoon— perhaps the entirety of the evening— and this continued, artificially-imposed silence was already becoming intolerable… 

“Did you enjoy the ale?” he finally said, feeling quite the fool as his voice cut through the air. 

“Hm?” The Captain glanced at him for a second and then went back to selecting items from the platters before him. 

“The Asgardian ale,” said Loki. His stomach growled indelicately— the scent of the food inviting— but he was reluctant to join the Captain at the table without an invitation… 

He’d been expecting more of the cool, dismissive demeanor, but was surprised when the man replied easily, in a conversational tone, as though Loki hadn’t just taken pains to break an awkward and lingering tension… 

“Yeah, it was good.” He wasn’t making eye contact, but it no longer seemed hostile— the man was simply focused on the table, and everything upon it. “Better than the mead that Thor’s brought back a few times; that stuff’s too sweet for me. But yeah. I could actually feel it workin’. Knocked me right out.” 

He frowned, then, as though immediately regretting the words— perhaps fearing he’d given something away… had revealed a way to subdue him— and Loki would have snorted, had he been the type to make such noises. _If he only knew, he thought, of the myriad ways he could be subdued, both magically and otherwise_ … 

He wondered if the Captain had ever put it together: how their brief hand-to-hand combat, all those years ago, had been a mockery, a sham— that the valiant human, though impressively-powered for his kind, had never been in a position to defeat him— not without Loki wishing it so. 

He supposed he must have worked it out at some point, given what he’d said to his friend, back at the cabin: ‘ _Watch it, Buck— can’t punch your way through this one_ …’ He’d been oddly protective of the man, considering how capable Barnes was in his own right… in fact if Loki hadn’t known any better, he might have thought— 

“You gonna eat anything?” said the Captain suddenly, surprising him. He’d torn off a generous wedge of some type of flatbread, and gestured to the spread on the table with it. “There’s plenty for both of us.” 

It was enough: the invitation his ego required, even if the man was only saying it to be polite, some sense of civility apparently overriding the need to express his animosity, at least for now. 

“I suppose I shall,” he replied, going for a nonchalance that his unruly stomach belied, and he made a curt motion with his hand, the tiny burst of magic imperceptible, silencing the importunate organ. He approached the table and kneeled down elegantly, positioning himself directly across from the good Captain. 

“The, uh… the dip here… ‘spretty good,” said Steve, gesturing to a dish that contained a green-and-purple substance that was both oily and crumbly— a bit like a tapenade. “Goes good with the bread…” 

He took a big bite of the bread after he said it, rotating his hand as he chewed, like he was cranking an invisible handle— indicating that he was waiting to speak again— and then swallowed and swiped at his lips with the backs of his fingers to get rid of some stray crumbs. “Don’t know what most of this stuff is,” he said, swallowing down a small belch, which Loki found oddly charming, coming from him. “Maybe you can help me out.” 

Loki nodded, but made no move to take any of the food yet, going instead for the slim decanter of wine that the Captain had settled on, pouring himself a generous helping and then leaning across the table to top off the other man’s cup. 

“Thanks,” said Steve, with a little nod of acknowledgment, and picked up the full cup, taking a generous gulp of the wine to wash down the bread. 

It was quiet then for a time, the only sound in the room the little clicks and rustles of utensils in bowls, selecting and tasting the various edibles, occasionally commenting— just a word or two, here and there, either recommending or warming— confining their conversation to the benign, if somewhat tedious, topic of the food before them. 

Loki, for his part, found himself mystified by the Captain’s behavior— the apparent reversal from his earlier attitude— and was ever on guard, watching him closely, trying to determine his game… 

Finally, a good hour or more later, the Captain leaned back with a sigh, his back propped up against the base of one of the large chairs behind him. He made no move to actually rise up and take a seat, apparently content to remain on the floor, as though moving the extra few feet would be too much to ask. 

“Guess I was hungry,” he said, with a hint of humor in his voice. 

“Indeed,” said Loki, has face ticking up with a small, but genuine smile. Where Loki had merely nibbled at the impressive assortment of foods, the other man had worked his way through the feast with a rhythm and momentum befitting more carnal pursuits— starting tentatively, sampling the flavors, finding what he liked; then moving through the display with more confidence, picking up the pace as he gradually lost himself to the pull of the sensory pleasure; and then finally tapering off, spent and sated and falling back to rest, a sleepy half-smile on his face. 

“You’ve certainly a hearty appetite,” said Loki, as he leaned forward to select a single turquoise sphere from what looked like a medley of raw vegetables. 

“It reminds me a bit of my brother,” he added, with a fondness he hadn’t intended, would not have chosen to reveal, had he been more mindful of his words. He’d meant it— the enthusiasm for feasting a familiar sight— though the experience of watching Thor consume a dripping shank of meat had never had quite the same… _effect_ on him as did observing the Captain surrender to his more base desires… 

He considered this as he held the little round vegetable in his fingers, examining the delicate, flecked skin; after a moment, he popped it in his mouth and rolled it around on his tongue. 

Steve raised his eyebrows. “How can you do it?” he asked, the hint of an accusation in his voice— and there it was, finally: the antipathy that Loki had known was still there, hiding beneath the surface, waiting… 

“Do what,” he said, biting down. The vegetable exploded in his mouth, spraying a tangy burst of liquid and seed all over inside. He swallowed it down, and then turned his head to spit off the few seeds that yet clung to his lips, surprising even himself with the crudeness of his behavior— spitting not something he was wont to do, and certainly not at table. 

“How can you stand to keep up this… charade,” said Steve, elaborating, “when you know Thor is still out there— still feeling… bad. About your supposed death.” He bent one of his legs— knee up, foot on the ground— and rested a thick forearm on it, while he stretched the other leg forward, threading it under the table to fully extend it. “He does, you know,” he added, after a beat of silence. “Feel bad.” 

Loki had picked up another vegetable, but tossed it back on the plate—another lapse in decorum— the implication of the Captain’s question rankling him. He took a moment to recline a bit himself, as he considered how to respond, stretching out his long legs parallel to the table, and then rolled a little, shifting his hips as he bent one leg to buttress himself, resting his weight on his forearm. 

His eyes flicked to the Captain and then quickly away. “It was not my… primary intention to deceive him,” he finally said. “I take no pleasure in it.” 

“Explain,” said Steve, leaning back a bit more, stretching out his other leg under the table, crossing his ankles. His arms were crossed now too, resting against his chest, his biceps straining at the confines of his button-down shirt. 

Loki was avoiding his eyes, his head bowed as he picked at some stray threads on the cuff of his wheat-colored homespun ‘ _Tolkir_ ’ shirt. He huffed a laugh, a grin flashing across his face— fleeting, artificial, and without a hint of humor. 

“And what would you have me say, Captain? What difference would it make? You and your friends— you’ve already made up your mind about me, have you not? What explanation could I _possibly_ supply to revise your opinion?” 

He leaned forward, picked out a soft, honey-colored fruit, and then eased back again, returning his weight to his forearm as he held the fruit in his other hand, his face now in profile to the other man. 

“Try me,” said Steve, his eyes still steady. 

“Is this how we are to spend the evening then?” asked Loki, still avoiding the original question. “Will you attempt to unravel my psyche, probe my arguments, expose my rationalizations? Beg me to justify my deplorable behavior?” He was turning the fruit in his hand, examining the skin. He made a derisive noise. “Sounds a bore.” 

“We don’t gotta talk at all, if you don’t wanna,” said Steve, irritated, shifting his hips a little. “Just thought it’d be a way to pass the time, I guess. Don’t know what else we’re gonna do here, while we’re waiting.” 

Loki turned his head to look at him, again with a little smile, only this time there was mischief in it, his eyes glinting in the flickering light of the hearth. “I could think of a few things…” 

He bit into the fruit, and it was very ripe— juicy and yielding— and a dribble of the nectar beaded at the corner of his mouth. His tongue flicked out, catching it, his eyes never leaving the Captain’s. He could see the other man’s eyes dart down— shimmering, crystal blue— for just a second, following the motion of his tongue, and then he looked quickly away— to the side, pointedly at nothing. He stayed there, his head turned, for a good five seconds before he spoke. 

“What are you doing,” he finally said, and though the man was trying to sound offhand, Loki could detect the subtle frisson of apprehension behind the words. He was still looking to the side, his eyes averted carefully away from Loki, but his breathing had ticked up a notch, probably unnoticeable to someone less perceptive. 

“Nothing at all,” said Loki, answering the question, his voice intentionally— falsely— innocent, and then he took another bite of the slippery fruit. It was overripe, really, but tasty nonetheless. “Just… making conversation.” 

“Look,” said Steve, and he suddenly sounded so very _serious_ that Loki couldn’t help chuckling a little, feeling a bit sorry for the Captain, for toying with him, because it was too easy… but _gods_ , the man needed to lighten up a little. Perhaps he should conjure some more of the ale for him… leave off torturing the poor man. Produce a deck of cards. Let the moment pass… 

“I don’t know what you think’s gonna happen here,” he was saying, still so _stern_ , “but—” 

“But what?” said Loki. He wasn’t looking at Steve anymore, focused instead on the fruit, as though it were something fascinating. The truth was— as much as Loki was loath to acknowledge it, even to himself— he’d tossed out an offering, an invitation… and for all his careful display of insouciance, it was going to sting when he was rejected. 

“Nothing’s gonna happen here,” said Steve, refusing to elaborate further. 

“Well, that’s a pity,” said Loki, sighing a little. He was still staring at the fruit as he spoke, but could feel the man’s eyes on him now. “I mean, I rather fail to see why _not_. I can tell that you’re… _curious_ about me. And you won’t remember it in any case, so… really, what have you possibly got to lose?” 

Steve didn’t know what to say to that. His first thought was that it was preposterous— insulting— to even _consider_ … 

But… 

It wasn’t as though he’d be betraying anyone, not anymore; it’d been over six months since the last time he and… 

To his horror, he could feel his face heating up, knew that his cheeks were pinking… 

God, _was_ he? Was he _curious_? About what it would be like with… 

Loki had finished the succulent fruit, and delicately placed the sodden core of it onto an empty wooden plate on the table. He didn’t meet Steve’s eyes as he spoke, but rather studied his fingers, the glisten of sticky juice still lingering on their tips. He dipped the very end of his index finger into his mouth, cleaning it with a quick swirl of his tongue— much like the spitting, it was an uncharacteristic lapse in his otherwise scrupulous manners, and he found that he quite enjoyed it. Perhaps he could stand to lighten up a bit himself. 

“If it’s my… lack of equipment you’re concerned about,” he ventured, “I quite assure you… there are many other ways I can—” 

“ _No_ ,” said Steve, a bit too forcefully, and if it were possible, his cheeks got even redder. “It’s not that; it’s just—” _God, how were they even discussing this? What the hell was going on_? 

“Is it this false appearance, then?” said Loki, and with a golden shimmer, his true features were restored, his long black hair loose and flowing in gentle waves to his shoulders, his body more exposed in the soft drape of his own tunic, unlaced and hanging open at the neck, the deep green of the fabric a stark contrast to the smooth ivory skin of his chest. His emerald eyes were watching the Captain carefully. 

When he got no response, he tried again, pushing down the disappointment of not being to the man’s taste… wanting to do what he could to be accommodating… 

“Perhaps someone more familiar would give you comfort?” With another shimmer, he’d taken on the form of one of the Captain’s brothers-in-arms: the Man of Iron, as Thor called him. Not a displeasing-looking man, though lacking a certain… sensuality, in Loki’s opinion… 

“What the—” said Steve, sitting up, his brow pinching in confusion. “I don’t— what—” 

“Or perhaps _this_ would be closer to the mark…” 

And with the next shimmer, it was Bucky lying there, reclined on the rug across from Steve, wearing the same jeans and tank top he’d been in earlier, a lazy, sexy smile playing on his lips, and he cleaned another one of his fingers, this time the ring finger, thick, taking the entire end of it into his mouth, past the first knuckle, and those were _Bucky’s_ hands— so unlike Loki’s, which were smooth and slender— a sorcerer’s implements… 

No— these were big and strong, made for working and fighting and for holding Darcy, and Steve would know them anywhere… 

He pushed away, visibly flinching, and then got to his feet, almost stumbling, in his effort to put distance between himself and this grotesque apparition of his best friend. 

“Don’t you _dare_ —” He was sputtering, angry, backing away, as Bucky— no— _Loki_ — pushed up to his feet, coming around the table, approaching him curiously, cautiously, like he was trying to soothe a spooked animal, as Steve kept stepping back, until he he could go no further, bumping into the wall. “Don’t—” 

“Don’t what,” said the other man, smirking as he approached, the voice deep, rolling, a little teasing, and it _sounded_ like Bucky, so much so that he could feel a burning in his abdomen and another rush of heat to his face, to have that sensual rumble directed toward _him_ , something he’d fantasized about countless times, knowing all the while it could never be… 

And _God_ , but it _could_ be him; Steve would have never known the difference, if he hadn’t seen the shift in form himself, and the idea made him sick… 

He was just a foot away from him now, and Bucky— _Loki_ — stepped in closer, pressed one hand against the wall, over Steve’s shoulder, and he even _smelled_ like Bucky… how could he— 

“ _Please_ ,” Steve said, not even knowing what he was asking for anymore, but it was like he was frozen, trapped there, like he was in a dream… like the ones he used to have all the time when he was just a kid… once he’d realized he was in love with his best friend, when he’d _lived_ for dreams like this, stolen moments in the darkness of night, safe in his own mind, where nobody could tell him it was wrong, where he didn’t have to face the reality that it was never gonna happen… 

Or worse… when he’d thought Bucky dead… but he’d still been there in the dreams— visiting him, like an angel… so beautiful, tangible, _alive_ … his lips warm and soft right next to Steve’s ear as he spooned him from behind, holding him, soothing him… telling him it was gonna be all right… and he’d wake from those dreams with a longing— such a terrible, empty ache— a vacuum so profound that it made him curse his wretched life, which seemed fated to do nothing but torment him with heartache and impossibility… 

Only this wasn’t a dream… he could feel the heat radiating off the man in front of him, just inches away now, could feel the presence of his strong body, the smell of his breath— _Bucky’s_ breath— and one of those big hands reached out, slowly, carefully, giving him time to say ‘no’, waiting… 

And then it made contact, and Steve’s eyes fell shut as he allowed himself to have it, just for a precious few seconds, to feel the lightly calloused pads of those fingers alight upon his lips, tugging down gently, pulling them apart, and it made him shiver, his breath picking up audibly, in spite of himself, even as he strained to fight it… 

Because it _wasn’t_ a dream, the memory of which he could keep hidden in some secret place inside: this was _real_ , and it wasn’t _Bucky_. It was— 

He mustered all of his will and pushed out the words, his eyes still shut, afraid of what he’d do if he opened them, if he saw the face there, just a breath away: “ _Stop. Please_ …” 

And even as he whispered it, part of him still leaned toward it, wanting to feel that touch again, like he was caught in a magnetic field… 

But he couldn’t— no, he _mustn’t_ — and he was battling it… not just because it wasn’t real, but because it was _wrong_ … like the worst kind of thievery… 

“Are you quite certain,” said the other man, and that did it— thank _God_ , that did it: that broke what little spell had been cast, because Bucky would never say something like that— not with those words— and that gave him the strength he needed to pull away from it… 

With a rough exhale, almost a sob, he managed to shove the man’s hand away, and pushed off from the wall, twisting himself to the side, and he was angry now… furious, in fact— mostly with himself, for even _considering_ … for allowing that one, fleeting touch— and now that he was free of it, loosed from the hazy lure of the dream, he dared to turn back, to look up again… 

Loki— still in Bucky’s skin— had stepped back, hands up, in that way Steve’d seen him do a number of times in the past two days— another mannerism that didn’t fit inside that stolen body he was wearing… 

Steve’s voice was a low growl, as deadly as he’d ever been: “Take that fuckin’ face off, right _goddamned_ now…” He was almost shaking. “You got _no_ right—” He could barely stand to look at him— because it was still Bucky standing there, gazing at him with real sorrow, regret, and he was beautiful, even in his sadness… 

Steve shut his eyes, tilted his head down and to the side, willing himself not to open again until it was safe. “I mean it, Loki,” he said, and there was less venom in it now— just a plea. “Take it off.” 

There was a pause, and then Steve heard, “Forgive me,” and it was Loki’s soft, careful voice, and when he opened his eyes, Bucky was gone, replaced by the familiar _Tolkir_ disguise. He actually looked contrite, if a little confused. “I did not mean to upset you, Captain— truly. I did not realize that—” 

“That what?” spat Steve angrily, laughing, with a bit of madness to it. “That I— that I used to have a thing for my best friend? That I want something I ain’t ever gonna have?” He huffed and shook his head, put his hands on his hips, trying to get a grip, cursing himself for saying the words out loud, and to Loki of all people. “Well, thanks a lot for that,” he said, looking down. “Thanks for fuckin’ reminding me.” 

He was pacing around, shuffling his boots against the floor in small circles, his head swirling, the anger like poison, real pain in his chest from having to feel it again, like a kind of emotional heartburn… having to go through it again, after the relief of being done with the worst of it— having made peace with it— or so he’d thought… and he wanted to punch something, wanted to rip something to pieces, wanted to feel something come apart under his clenched hands. 

And then he gave into it: swiveled around, hauled off and slammed his fist into the wall— the stupid grey wall— and it turned out even the alien masonry was vulnerable to super-soldier strength, because the impact left a head-sized crater amid a spiderweb of cracks, splintering out for several feet in all directions, while a dusting of pulverized stone showered to the floor. 

Loki watched silently as the man went back to his pacing, shoulders heaving, trying to bring down his blood, and it was such a familiar sight— having witnessed similar displays many a time at Thor’s side, knowing there was little to do but wait out the storm. It seemed as though the one blow had done the job, though, the man visibly working to conquer his emotions, and finally the Captain leaned heavily against the wall, sideways, his back to Loki, and let out a long, shuddering exhale. 

“Forgive me,” said Loki, once again, gently. “I— truly, I meant no harm. I only wished to offer you something I was… pleased to give, and which I thought would… please _you_. I shall… trouble you no more.” When the man made no reply, he continued, “If you would prefer to be alone, I could…” 

“No,” said Steve, turning around then, still leaning against the wall, head down. He looked even more tired than before, and if Loki had hoped to smooth those worried lines on his brow, he’d failed spectacularly. 

“No, I’ll… I think I need some air,” said Steve finally, pushing off the wall. He strode over to the big wooden doors, slid open the bolt, and pulled one side open. He paused there for a moment, his fingers wrapped around the iron handle. 

“I’ll be outside, if…” He’d been about to say, ‘ _if you need me_ ,’ but the words seemed too suggestive, too ridiculous, given what’d just happened, so he simply let the sentence trail off and die as he fled the scene, slamming the door behind him with a _boom_ that reverberated like a temblor through all the walls of the house.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some fairly descriptive sexual content near the beginning of this chapter. If you don't want to read it, stop when he starts tunneling down under the furs ;) and pick it up again at the chapter break symbol <<>> and the line, "I wonder what time it is"...  
> \--------------

“Oh my God, are these the pussy fruits?” 

Darcy and Bucky were lounging on the leather couch, naked and cleansed and loosely draped in furs, wrapped in a blanket of hazy contentment as they lay in each other’s arms. They’d been resting for some time, occasionally leaning over to grab and feed each other tidbits from the spread of food on the coffee table, and Darcy now held up a small, fiery-orange fruit, one of several that she’d found in an elegantly simple, round wooden bowl. 

Bucky took it from her, turned it around in his hand as he looked at it. “Seems to match the description,” he said, and then he grinned, biting his lower lip. “Why don’t you give it a try,” he said after a minute, handing it back to her, and he was almost chuckling, and his lazy mirth, served up with half-mast eyes, was infectious… 

She smiled back at him and traced her finger down the faint purple line on his face, the dye still barely visible on both of them— it was probably going to take at least one more steam bath to get it all out— not that she was in any hurry to, as long as it came out before it was time to leave… 

As much as she hated this fucking planet, Darcy had to admit that the last couple of hours here had been pretty goddamned amazing. She only felt a _little_ bit guilty that Steve was the one stuck socializing with Loki— something she wouldn’t have necessarily minded doing herself, if she’d been the one to have to wait, but she knew there was no love lost between those two, and could only imagine what they were getting up to… 

She sniffed the fruit and then bit into it, and groaned almost immediately, because it was _incredible_ — soft and juicy and with a complicated flavor both sweet and smoky, a bit like caramelized plantains… 

“Oh my God,” she said, around a mouthful of fruit. “You gotta try this.” 

“Don’t think I’m s’posed to,” he said, and he let loose another lazy smile as he played with a ringlet of her hair. “Don’t have the right parts.” He let go of the curl and trailed his fingers down the midline of her body, all the way to the little dimple above the crack of her ass, and then back up again. “I’m just s’posed to offer it, s’what I gathered from that story… ’n then you gotta eat it, and then…” 

“And then?” She returned his smile, took another bite of the fruit, and then dropped the grin, unable to keep her cheeks flexed as the taste spread over her tongue and another groan escaped her, this one sounding particularly filthy. 

“N’then I get _my_ treat,” he said, his voice low and rumbly, and he rolled them easily so that she was beneath him on the wide couch, laid out naked on a bed of brown fur, and as he lifted up enough to get a full look at her creamy body, set off beautifully against the soft, deep brown, his eyes glazed over a bit as he licked his lips. “Jesus, doll… we oughta buy some furs when we get back…” 

Her face fell a little and she leaned to set the core of the fruit onto the edge of the table, and then sighed, pulling the furs around herself again. 

“What is it?” he said, easing back down, careful to position himself so that his full weight wasn’t on her. “I say somethin’ wrong? You know I meant synthetic fur, right?” 

“No, you’re good,” she said, reaching up to stroke the rough scrape of his stubbly jaw. “It’s just— it’s like what you said, before. How you don’t wanna forget this. I keep having these thoughts… things I don’t wanna forget, either. Important things.” 

“Yeah?” he asked. “Like what?” He slid down a little, pushed aside the furs enough to bare one of her breasts to him, and he kissed her, drew up her nipple slowly with his lips, pulled on it and wet it with his tongue, and she sighed, moving her hips a bit as she relaxed again into his care. 

“Like—” She stopped, breathing hard as he moved his hand up to cup her breast as he sucked on it, and she curled her toes, feeling like his lips and tongue were applying an electric current that traveled from her nipple down to her core… 

“Like how you were right,” she went on, when he let up for minute, having mercy on her so she could speak. “Like, totally right. About the ceremony. I mean, I get it now. It totally matters. And I hope— I mean, I know we aren’t gonna remember this, but maybe something in my stupid, stubborn brain will subconsciously kick in the next time we talk about it, because… I do. I get it now. We’re gonna do this back home, when we… when we do it. One of us needs to remember that I said all this, because we’re gonna do something special. We _have_ to.” 

He’d gone back to her nipple while she was talking, licking and pulling at it softly, but now he lifted away completely with a wet little _pop_ so he could look at her, his big hands splayed out on either side of her ribcage. “Yeah?” he said, and his face was so open, so exposed and bare in his happiness to hear it, that she wanted to kick her former self for ever being so pig-headed about it, for denying him this simple pleasure, for not trusting him to know, better than her sometimes, what might be important, what _mattered_ , and _God_ , she hoped her future self wouldn’t be so fucking stubborn about it… 

“Yeah,” she affirmed. “I want it. I want something… special. To match how I feel about you.” And her smile was almost shy, and it was kind of amazing that it could still feel that way— that vulnerable feeling of expressing it openly, explicitly— even after all these years together, and telling each other ' _I love you_ ,' innumerable times… and maybe that was another way to stoke the fire: finding fresh ways to show it, to say it… 

“Doll,” he said, and she knew, by the soft way he’d said that one word, and the dopey way he was looking at her, that she’d totally gotten him—melted him— and that she was in for it: that he was going to ravish her now, and she smiled in anticipation, already melting a little too, knowing what was coming… 

And just a few seconds later he was already making good on the threat, threading his hand into her hair, his fingers cupping the back of her head so that he could cradle it as he leaned down to take her mouth with his, slowly, tasting her as he kissed her long and deep, a vulnerable noise escaping from his throat as he did it, and the sound of him, so raw, had her moving her hands from where they’d been smoothing along his sides into a more predatory grip, sliding down to the muscular curve of his ass, digging in, pulling him toward her— wanting him closer, wanting to hold him, take care of him, make sure there was _never_ any doubt in his mind just how special he was to her… 

But instead of settling his hips between her thighs, he pulled back, just enough to look at her with a grin that basically said, ‘ _You’re gonna get it_ ,’ and she giggled at it, so in love with this man, and then he was working his way down, tunneling backward under the furs, nudging her legs apart with his broad shoulders so he could fit himself in between, opening her up to him… 

And she was glad she’d insisted on that steam bath after their second bout earlier, because otherwise she’d have been overly ripe down below by now— not that he cared, always insisting that he preferred her natural musky scent to some kind of artificial fruity or flowery smell, especially if he was working her with his mouth, like now… 

“ _Oh my God— thank you, alien pussy fruit_ ,” she whispered, because he was outdoing himself this time, sucking on her lips and laving her slowly with his hot tongue in a way that was going have her falling to pieces almost too quickly if it weren’t utterly worth it for how goddamned exquisite it was… 

And he was moaning as he tasted her, like she was as savory and delicious as the fruit she’d just eaten, and what had started for her as sleepy, drawn-out groans just got louder and lustier with each pass and swirl of his tongue, every thirsty pull of his lips, and her noises only encouraged him, his strong hands alternately pressing against her thighs or into the bends of her legs, adjusting himself, holding her open as he doubled his efforts… 

He was pushing her up the length of the couch with his face, his legs doing a kind of abbreviated army crawl, seeking leverage with his knees, trying to get closer, until there was nowhere left for her to go, her head bumping into the armrest, and she stretched her arms behind her head, grasping the rolled edge of the couch, hanging on as he pinned her there… 

His hands slipped underneath her body then, sliding up and down the silky curves of her hips, her ass, angling the softness of her center into his face so he could drink from her, filling the air with filthy smacking sounds in between his own groans, as he slaked his thirst with her pleasure… 

She was right at the edge, her sharp little gasps getting higher and higher, when he suddenly slowed, backing off, taking a moment to breathe and lick his lips, smiling a little as she cursed him, knowing she’d only thank him for it in the long run… 

His flesh hand released its hold on her ass, coming back around to smooth against the spread of her inner thigh, kissing the soft skin there, before returning to her core, sighing and stroking her slowly now, his tongue and fingers working in tandem, playing her gently, patiently, until she began to moan and quiver and beg once again… 

Her thighs were shaking, instinctively trying to squeeze, to grasp and pull him in, and he responded by pressing her even wider, using his shoulder on the left side, pressing against her thigh, and withdrawing his fingers to press his hand flat against the other— keeping her braced there, open to him, as he picked it up again, giving her everything he had, driving her toward her peak, merciless now, unstoppable, breathing almost as heavily as she was… 

She knew he could sense how close she was— knew all her tells— and he was determined to blast her through it and right off the fucking cliff without letting up for a second… 

And she was only a flicker away, had halted her own frantic keening— holding her breath in a silent scream as everything tightened— her hips rising, trying to rock into his face, shameless, obeying nothing but the need to release, and he held her steady, giving no quarter, keeping her captive with his arms and his mouth, his lips locked against her, even as he continued to drag his tongue against her slowly, like the sweetest torture, giving it to her, unyielding, until finally he felt her coil up and crest, and she came apart with an almost agonized wail, her hips shuddering against him… 

And he breathed out with a little sigh, releasing the pressure, and she became boneless, almost crying from the relief, her hips still rolling instinctively through the aftermath as he unwound his arms from her legs, unbending them for her, caressing her gently as she unfurled on her slide back down to Earth, or wherever the fuck they were… and she wondered how she’d been so lucky… so happy that the Fates had chosen to smile upon her, to give her this amazing, beautiful, generous, passionate man. 

When she came back to her senses, she could feel him smiling against her body, in no hurry to move, just resting there with his face between her legs, using her inner thigh as a pillow, and she reached down with a shaky hand to pet his head a little, to let him know she was still alive— barely— and very appreciative of his work. She’d hoped to say something eloquent, or even just sweet, but all that came out was, “ _Fugg… guhhh…_ ,” completely wiped out, incapable of even forming words. 

She could feel his smile grow wider, and then he lifted up, and placed one tender little kiss right above the cut of her puffed out, sex-swollen lips, before finally crawling his way back up her body and into her arms, shifting a little to the side, so that he wouldn’t crush her, resting his head against her chest. 

“Love you doll,” he whispered, and she let her eyes fall shut as she combed her fingers through his hair, and within just a few minutes, they were both sound asleep. 

<<>>

“I wonder what time it is,” mumbled Darcy. They’d dozed on and off, and there was the feeling of the evening getting on, but there was no way to tell. Bucky had rolled them on the couch so that he was beneath her again, and she was splayed across his body, twirling the short hairs on his chest with her fingertips. 

It wasn’t like them to laze about for hours like this, just lying silently in each other’s arms, drifting, but the lack of other options made it easy— nothing else to do, nowhere to go, no pressing engagements, no messages to check. It was actually pretty nice, and it was weird that they wouldn’t necessarily choose to do this back home, even though they probably could, at least a few days out of the month, when they weren’t traveling or working actively on a project. 

“We could stand outside and yell down the way to Loki’s place,” Bucky suggested. “See if Steve can hear us. See what he’s up to….” 

“God, I hope he’s not mad that we’ve taken so long… I mean, I wasn’t really expecting…” 

He chuckled a little, making her body jiggle where she lay pressed against him. “A double?" 

“More like a triple,” she said, grinning, and then added, “Honestly, I didn’t know I’d even be up for a _single_ , until it was happening. I was kinda thinking it might be a turnoff, being told we _had_ to… you know, like on a schedule… everyone waiting on us.” 

He was quiet, and she lifted her head so that she could look at him, her chin pressing into his sternum. “I can practically hear you thinking,” she said. “What is it?” 

“I don’t know,” he said. “S’not important.” 

“Okay, now you _have_ to tell me,” she said, watching his face. 

“Don’t wanna make things weird…” 

“Spit it out,” she said. “Whatever it is, it’s obviously bugging you.” When he still remained silent, she felt a little flutter of anxiety and said, “Come on; you’re making me nervous now.” 

He shifted his hips a little, beneath her, took a breath and let it out, but he still didn’t speak for another minute. “S’not right,” he finally said. “What I’m thinkin’. I ain’t got no right…” 

She really _was_ nervous now, trying to figure out what could possibly be bothering him, going back in her mind trying to think of what she’d said that— 

“Oh my God, I get it,” she said, as it came to her. “I mean, I _think_ I do. You’re thinking about the… the memory, aren’t you. About how I… how I…” 

She balked at actually saying, ‘ _enjoyed_ ’ to describe her compulsory-sex-with-a-stranger encounter with Loki, but that would be accurate, wouldn’t it? They’d all seen the proof, through Loki’s magic movie-theater-of-the-mind bullshit. It’d filled her with shame, having to re-live how much she’d enjoyed it, considering the circumstances, as though basic decency should have dictated at least _some_ measure of horror… 

That’d been only a day ago— that they’d all been treated to the memory of her laughter and shrieks of pleasure, and oh yeah… her breathless ‘ _fuck me_ ’ on repeat… all that, when required to screw a total stranger under duress— and now here she was today, saying she hadn’t been sure she’d be up for consummating her sort-of marriage to the man she truly loved. 

She could see why he felt bad even bringing it up, because it was completely unfair: she had a right to want or not want sex in _any_ given situation, _full stop_ … and anyway, it was ridiculous to try to compare anything about these crazy circumstances… 

That said, she also knew Bucky was only human, and in his shoes she’d probably be feeling secretly insecure too, her inner child stamping her foot: ‘ _But why wouldn’t you want to have compulsory sex with meeee? What’s he got that I don’t?_ ’ 

“I mean obviously, I was wrong,” she said, meaning that the consummation order hadn’t, in the end, quashed her desire for him in the slightest, and then she realized that he probably had no idea what she meant, having missed the entire inner dialogue she’d just had with herself. 

“Wrong about not wanting to,” she clarified. “Not that, you know, it would’ve been wrong, or like, anything against you _personally_ , if I hadn’t been on board for it,” she added, feeling weird about even saying something like that to Bucky, because of course he knew that. He, of all people, didn’t need to have the concept of body autonomy explained to him. 

“I know, sweetheart,” he said. “That’s why I didn’t wanna… I know it’s fucked up. M’just… tryin’ to figure out what I’m feelin’.” He sighed and ran his hand down her back, tracing the line of her spine with his synthetic fingertips. “Guess I was foolin’ myself, thinkin’ I could just avoid feelin’ weird about it… about seein’ what we saw. When you said what you said… about not likin’ bein’ told… it just… brought it all back to me…” 

She slid off him, onto her side, but kept an arm and a leg wrapped around his body. “Shit,” she said. She wasn’t upset, but he was right. The whole situation with Loki— what she’d had to do, and Bucky having to _see_ it, was hella weird, and they’d pretty much avoided the topic, just packing it away discreetly as though it’d never happened. Not that they’d had much of a chance to discuss it, even if they’d wanted to. 

“Are we gonna talk about it?” she asked. 

“I dunno,” he said, his prosthetic hand still smoothing up and down her skin, soothing her, like a reminder that he was present, not seeking to pull away, in spite of the awkward subject. “Do you think we need to?” 

Darcy sighed and gripped him a little bit more tightly, pressing her body into his side. “I don’t want it to come between us. It’s pretty… I mean, it’s a unique situation. It’s not like we’re gonna be able to go back and talk to our therapists about it… And anyway, if all goes well, and he keeps his word, we won’t even remember it, so…” 

Bucky was quiet for a minute, and then he said, softly, “I wouldn’t mind havin’ to remember it, if I could remember the other stuff, too. Like today.” She could feel him breathing, the rise and fall of his chest beneath her hand. “I meant it,” he continued. “What I said, back in the courtroom. What happened between you and him— ain’t got nothin’ to do with us, how I feel about you.” He huffed a little and smiled. “Coulda done without havin’ to _see_ it…” 

“It’s kind of horrifying,” she agreed. “It’s almost as bad as what happened to my friend Drew, in high school…” 

He tilted his head down, grinning now, his hand still moving on her arm. “Oh yeah? Do tell— I wanna know what’s worse than havin’ to watch a legendary, criminal space-god showin’ your girl a good time, with all the bells and whistles…” 

“Oh God, okay— I mean, it was _terrible_ ,” she said, but she was snickering about it already. “He was with his girlfriend at the time, and you know, obviously he was still living at home— he was like, sixteen, seventeen. Anyway— they were in the living room, at his parents’ house, and they were all alone, because everyone else had gone out to dinner or something, and—” 

She stopped for a second because she was giggling again, thinking about it. Bucky pinched her ass affectionately, prodding her to continue. “And what,” he said, grinning. 

“Okay, so his girlfriend was showing him a really good time. Like, on her knees. In the middle of the living room. Like, totally out in the open. And then his parents came home early, and they walked right in and…” 

Bucky snorted out a laugh. “Heya, Ma. Pop.” 

Darcy chortled. “Totally— like, ‘ _Oh hey there, Mom… yup, you’re not hallucinating— my cock is, in fact, in her mouth_.’” Bucky was laughing with her now, his chest shaking and she went on: “And his poor girlfriend… she had to, like… _disengage_ , and…” 

They were both laughing— quiet little snuffles, infecting each other like a couple of dorks, as they lay there thinking about it, and it felt cleansing, the laughter. They were good at this— good at cheering each other up when things got a little heavy… 

“Okay, yeah,” he said, when they’d calmed down. “That’s worse. Jesus. If somethin’ like that’d ever happened to me… my poor Ma woulda needed some kinda brain transplant. Never coulda looked her in the eye again…” He raised his eyebrows. “Or sat in that room together. Woulda ruined Christmas forever.” And they erupted into giggles again… 

“Seriously, though,” he said, after a while, “S’much as that stank, havin’ to see it— because the way it felt, it was like… it felt like it was happenin’ _now_ , and I ain’t gonna lie—” He shook his head once, licked his lips. “Part o’ me wanted to rip that guy’s head right off for touchin’ you like that.” 

“But then I got to thinkin’… _Jesus_ … just look at all the things you’ve had to see me do… like that file I made you look at, way back… or hell, standin’ right next to me when I was chokin’ Steve within an inch of his life. For Christ’s sake, sweetheart, at least you were havin’ a good _time_ … you weren’t doin’ nothin’… ugly.” 

“Wasn’t I?” she said, softly. “I mean, people were _dying_. Well, maybe not people. Beings. Whatever. That poor blue guy that got zapped. And then I turn around and go, ‘ _woooo_ sexy fun-times’? What the hell is wrong with me?” 

He rolled a little on his side then, facing her, pulling her into him, the furs around her shoulders falling to her waist. “You ain’t got nothin’ to feel guilty about,” he said. He was running his hand through her hair, and his eyes were locked to hers, making sure she was listening, believing him. 

“You just did what you needed to, to be all right. Not just… not just with your body, but up in your head, too. To make it okay. Believe me, I know. Hard as all that was for me to see… you havin’ a good time— feelin’ good— was the best possible way that coulda gone, and I’m damn glad for it.” 

She ducked her head, snuggling into him as he wrapped his strong arms around her, and she felt like she should say something, but she didn’t know what would even be adequate to express the complicated feelings she was having, so she just breathed into his warm chest and felt it again: gratitude for her luck, good fortune, fate— whatever you wanted to call it. She’d hit the fucking jackpot with this man. 

They were so lost in their little private bubble together that neither of them noticed when Loki materialized into the room, several feet away, but as he took his first step in the room, his foot landed on a nut that had rolled onto the floor, squashing it with an audible _crunch_ , and they both heard it, reacting instantly, Darcy with a shout of surprise, while Bucky ripped the furs up to cover her body. 

“Jesus Christ, Loki,” she yelled, when she’d recovered from the near heart-attack brought on by his sudden appearance. “What the fuck?!? You ever hear of knocking on a fucking door?” And then she looked incredulously to Bucky, who was holding a knife in the hand that wasn’t snaked around her body, protecting her. “What the fuck, boo,” she said to him, and she almost laughed. “Where did that even _come_ from?” 

“I beg your pardon,” said Loki. He’d had the decency to at least swivel around, so that his back was turned to them, as soon as he’d grasped their state of affairs. “I had assumed that you’d be using the bedchamber, were you yet… preoccupied…” 

Darcy couldn’t help snickering then. “We haven’t actually made it there yet.” 

“Ah, I see,” said Loki, sounding flustered. “Do forgive me. I’d assumed you’d have, ah… that is to say, as it’s been quite some time…” He cut himself off, as though irritated with his own floundering. He turned, keeping his eyes averted, and made as though to depart through conventional means, using the doors. “I shall leave you to it, then, and—” 

“Wait, why are you even here?” said Darcy. She’d rotated herself in Bucky’s arms so that she could see Loki, her back molded into Bucky’s front, so that he was spooning her inside the furs. He’d leaned forward a little, reaching to set the knife on the table, and then brought his arm back and wrapped it around her, holding the furs in place. 

“Where’s Steve?” she added. “Is everything all right?” 

“Yes, of course,” said Loki, his eyes still averted. “Though I think the good Captain could do with a… reprieve from my company. I was hoping to ascertain whether he could return to yours.” 

“Sure, send him over,” said Darcy. 

“You do not need additional time to…” He’d turned, carefully, and when he could see that they’d made themselves appropriately modest for their own comfort and conventions, he faced them fully again. 

“God, no,” she said. “We’ve already done it twice and took a shower and everything,” she said, and Loki couldn’t help smiling inside, at how utterly matter-of-fact she was about it. “I’m pretty sure we’ve held up our side of the whole legal dealie.” 

“Ah,” he said. “Well, in that case, I shall let the Captain know that—” He stopped himself suddenly, looked at them there, wrapped together on the couch, and furrowed his brow. He seemed to be trying to make up his mind about something. 

Darcy was about to say, ‘ _What the fuck, dude_ ,’ because it almost felt like he was perving on them again, when finally he took a breath and spoke with a hint more formality than usual. 

“I must ask you to once again forgive me,” he said. “I’ve been most remiss in my communication skills these past days, I’m afraid. It came to my attention almost immediately upon our reunion back at your… lodge, but then it slipped my mind, with all of the… events in the interim.” 

“What the hell are you talking about,” said Bucky. His body was outwardly relaxed, but the arm wrapped around Darcy was the right amount of tense, ready to go for the knife again, if need be. “What… came to your attention?” 

“The, ah… I am referring to my spellwork… the… unique trace of my _seiðr_ on her person. I could sense it on her, as soon as I materialized in the lodge.” 

“What spellwork?” said Darcy, totally confused. “What—” 

And then Loki could see the moment she realized, her face falling. 

“Oh my God…” 

“What is it,” said Bucky, tensing more obviously. “What’d he do to you now?” 

“The spell,” she whispered. “The space… it’s the space contraception, right?” She looked up at Loki’s face, and he was nodding, his lips pressed together, confirming it. 

“I do apologize,” he said. “It was meant to dissipate on its own, and rather quickly. I had no idea it would have such staying power in one of your kind. It came as quite a surprise…” 

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” she said, and Bucky could feel her starting to shake, and it was just like back at the cabin, when she’d had to face the truth of what’d happened to her, and he’d had just about enough of this, of seeing Loki make his girl so upset. 

“I don’t understand,” he said, exhaling roughly, fighting to remain calm. “What are you talking about?” 

“He— he did a spell thing on me,” she explained, her voice still barely above a whisper, realizing that the memory they’d all seen, back at the cabin, hadn’t included those extra details, though she and Loki certainly both remembered. “After we— right before we got sent back, so that I wouldn’t—” 

Her breath was picking up, and tears were prickling in her eyes. “Oh my God, this entire time… it was _me_ — _I’m_ the one who… oh _God_ , Bucky…” 

“I still don’t—” Bucky said, and she turned again, under the furs, so that she was facing him, and she was trembling, and she licked her lips, trying to steady her palms against his chest. 

“It was _me_ ,” she said. “I’m the reason we can’t— that we haven’t— this whole time. I’ve been… _I’m_ the one who’s infertile, not you. Or at least, I mean, you _might_ be okay?” She was looking into his eyes, searching them, seeing if he was hearing her, understanding. “I mean, how would we ever know?” She dropped her head for a second, her breathing ragged, and then looked up at him again, needing to repeat it: “Bucky, are you hearing me? Maybe you— you might be okay.” 

Loki was still standing there, unnerved as he listened to her— as he deduced what she hadn’t said outright. “You have been… hoping to conceive a child.” 

“Yeah,” said Bucky softly, and he pulled Darcy closer into his arms, trying to soothe her, even as he struggled to take in the revelation himself. “We, uh… we had reason— good reason— to believe I was the one who was keepin’ that from happening. Maybe still am, but.” 

“Oh my God,” she whispered again, and she was crying now. “What if we— if we’d gone ahead with the donor sperm, it never would have worked, and we never would’ve known why. They would’ve done all kinds of tests on me, and they never would’ve been able to tell me why I couldn’t…” 

Loki felt an uncomfortable ache in his chest, to see her so distressed, and all because of him. Always, _always_ , leaving destruction and pain in his wake, even when he was trying to do good. Would it never end? 

“If you would permit me,” he said now, his voice hushed, uncertain. “I can remove it now, if that be your wish.” 

“You kiddin’ me?” said Bucky, a little bit angry, still trying to digest it all, knowing it wasn’t the other man’s _fault_ , exactly— that in fact he was offering to grant them something they hadn’t even known they’d needed, and that would spare them untold additional pain, moving forward— but nevertheless, part of him had the urge to tell the guy to get the hell out and leave them alone, at least until they could wrap their head around all of it. 

“Maybe you should just get outa here for a while,” he said, voicing the emotion, and Loki was nodding, ready to agree to whatever they needed, when Darcy sniffled and rotated in Bucky’s arms so that she was facing outward once again. 

“Wait,” she said. 

Loki obliged, his hands clasped loosely in front of his body, waiting to hear what she was going to say, expecting some sort of impassioned dressing-down, a ferocious tongue-lashing, and he supposed he deserved it, having obviously been, inadvertently, the cause of untold heartache for the couple before him. 

“Will you do it?” she asked instead, surprising him, and she sounded so vulnerable, it pained him. “Can you undo it right now?” 

“I can,” he said, firmly. “Do you wish it?” 

She twisted her head, looking back at Bucky for a moment, and they had some kind of silent exchange with their eyes. 

“Yeah,” she said, turning back. She reached up with a hand to swipe at the tears on her cheeks. “Do it.” 

“As you wish,” he said, and he approached them, slowly, ever wary of Barnes, who was like a bodyguard there behind her, probably ready and willing to slice open his neck if he made the wrong move. He quietly pushed the coffee table diagonally out of the way so that he could kneel in front of her, by the couch. 

“I shall need you to…” He hesitated, not sure how best to say it. “You must… I shall need to place my hand against your flesh,” he said, apologetically, “As before.” It was unnerving, asking her to bare herself to him, with her man right there. But there was no helping it; he needed to make contact with her body, to be sure. 

“Yeah, okay,” she said, still sniffling a little, and she sat up a bit, pulling the layers of fur around her body, Bucky sitting up as well, behind her, so that she was wedged between his thighs and propped up against his back. Keeping one of the furs draped around her legs and hips, she carefully hiked the other one up, holding it over her breasts for modesty as she bared her soft, round belly to Loki. 

It was terribly awkward. Loki knew that Darcy would not appreciate his asking her man for permission to touch her— it was _her_ body, not his— but nevertheless, it seemed a necessary step, for his own peace of mind, and his eyes flicked up to the man’s face, to the grey-blue eyes watching him like a bird of prey, following his every move, and Loki asked him, silently… 

Just as quickly, he got his answer: _Do it_. 

He reached out his slender hand, hovering an inch over the skin she’d exposed, noting the thick, silvery scar tissue that now puckered in a four-inch-long band along one side, above her hipbone. He frowned, wondering what adversity had visited her, to suffer such a wound, and his thoughts quickly darted to Barnes and his blades… 

He pushed the thought away, focusing instead on the unmistakable vibration of the _seiðr_ that yet wove through her cells, like a signature he’d left behind, unseen. When he found its source— the area where the spell had taken such firm hold— he settled his hand over it gently, letting his palm mold against the soft curve of her skin. 

There was a subtle glow around his hand, and Darcy drew in a deep breath through her nose, shutting her eyes as she felt the warmth of his magic sink in, running through her like a vapor, hooking onto the erstwhile enchantment which had long since overstayed its welcome, and then he began to draw it out, pulling away the spell she’d been unknowingly carrying inside for more than a decade. 

She gasped a little as it left her— she could feel the tug— and Loki clenched his hand as it was completed, as though crushing something inside his curled fingers, and then he relaxed, staring at his open hand for a moment before letting it fall back to his lap. 

He looked back to her face— she was staring at him now— and he nodded, once. “It is done,” he said, gently. 

She took another deep breath, let it out slowly, and then let the fur fall back in place, covering up her body again, and as Loki watched her, cradled there in the arms of her man, she suddenly seemed so very _small_ , vulnerable, and he again felt the weight of what his haphazard, if well-intended, actions had wrought… 

He was about to stand up, but then, as an afterthought, he tilted his head, seemed to consider for a moment, and then addressed himself to Bucky, not quite meeting his eyes. 

“Understanding that it is far from my business,” he began, “I nevertheless feel compelled to inquire— what has you convinced you that are unable to… father a child?” 

Darcy reached for Bucky’s hand, under the furs, and squeezed it— her message as clear as if she’d spoken, telling him he didn’t have to say a word, if he didn’t want to. To tell Loki to fuck off, if he didn’t want to explain. He squeezed back, giving her his own silent answer: _S’okay_. 

“The people who had me,” he said. “Made me into… a weapon. They, uh… they did things to me. Cut me up. Takin’ that away from me was somethin’ they did for… well, I can’t say for sure why they did it. Maybe to see how good I was at regenerating. Maybe just to fuck with me. Took ‘em enough times to get it right.” Bucky wrinkled his forehead then. “Why d’you wanna know?” 

Loki shook his head, his own brow still pinched. “I would not claim to know for certain, without… further evaluation, but… I do not sense that…” He shook his head again. “I do not believe there is anything amiss with your virility, Mr. Barnes. Or perhaps, if it had been, it has long since… resolved itself.” 

“And how the fuck would you know _that_?” said Bucky, knowing he was being unnecessarily rude, in spite of— or maybe because of— the ache in the pit of his stomach. Afraid to hope… but succumbing to it anyhow. 

Loki smiled a little, even as his eyes looked sad. “I can sense your… it is hard to explain, to one who does not understand _seiðr_ — my mother, were she here… she was magnificent at explaining such matters…” 

He pushed up then, wearily, as one who’d been sitting too long in one place, and said, “Suffice it to say, I can feel the vital force within you, Mr. Barnes, and sense no… impediment to your… potency. So much so, that I feel obliged to… well, to warn you, should it not be your intention to commence with your designs immediately. With the removal of the shield…” His eyes flicked to Darcy and then back to Barnes. “You are, the both of you… quite fertile. I’d wager my life on it.” 

He heaved out a sigh, looking around the room, idly glancing at the spread of food on their table; they’d clearly not been as hungry as the Captain— they’d barely touched the refreshments. When he glanced to the humans again, intending to finally take his leave, he was unprepared for the stunned look they both wore, as though his speech had acted as a paralytic on their bodies, both of them mute, unmoving. 

Darcy finally whispered her man’s name, just once, and there were tears tracking down her cheeks, while Barnes simply stared ahead, into nothing, his shoulders rising and falling as he breathed steadily in and out, holding rigidly to some unnameable emotion, but looking, uncharacteristically, as though he’d crumble from even the slightest touch… 

And then Darcy stood, quite suddenly, barely bothering to cover herself with one of the furs, and she was mumbling, saying, “I can’t— I gotta,” and there was a note of panic in her voice, and then she all but fled, stumbling, past Loki, past the slant-wise coffee table, through the doorway, and into the illusion of safety in the bathroom. She dropped the fur, uncaring who saw, entered the mist chamber, and shut the door. A moment later, they could hear the steam cycle starting up. 

“Did I… misstep?” asked Loki, confused, unsure what had just happened. 

“No,” said Bucky, finally breaking out of his mile-long stare to look up at the other man. “No, you did good,” he said softly. “Thank you.” 

Loki was speechless for a moment, completely caught off guard by the expression of gratitude, the sincerity in the man’s voice. The last time someone had thanked him for something— genuinely— well… it was too long ago to even hope to recall the circumstances. 

“Will she be… all right,” he asked. 

“Yeah,” said Bucky. “She’s just…” He sighed. “It’s a lot.” He huffed out a sound of disbelief, then. “You, uh… you just changed everything for us. Everything.” 

Loki turned to the side, flustered, completely unaccustomed to such raw displays of appreciation, and certainly not directed toward _him_. “Yes, well…” 

He glanced back to Barnes, who was still in somewhat of a daze. The remaining fur had fallen from his shoulders, pooling around his hips, completely exposing the artificial limb that replaced his left arm. 

“Did you truly lose your arm in a war?” he asked curiously, grateful for a distraction from the turbulent and unfamiliar emotions that were swirling inside him. 

“Yeah,” said Bucky, again pulling away from some faraway place. He was hearing the words, but still wasn’t completely present, and directed his gaze, and his answer, to some invisible target in the distance. 

“I, uh… I fell off a mountain,” he said. “Was taken prisoner. Brainwashed, turned into a puppet. A weapon for a group of evil motherfuckers bent on controlling the world, molding it to their own idea of what’s best for humanity.” 

Loki chuckled, shaking his head a little. 

“What,” said Bucky, finally focusing, making eye contact, not understanding what was funny. 

“It’s just that… well, it’s just… rather familiar.” 

Bucky didn’t know what to say to that, but he wasn’t in the mood to share stories around the campfire— he needed time to think about what’d just happened, and to check on his girl. He took a deep breath, grounding himself in the present, and then pushed off the couch, holding the fur around his hips. His body language suggested that it was time for the guest to go home, and Loki was happy to oblige. 

“Shall I send Captain Rogers back, then?” 

Barnes had leaned down to pull the coffee table back into position, and Loki couldn’t help but notice the extensive scarring on the right side of the man’s back, the skin looking as though it’d been completely ravaged and remade, all the way from shoulder to hip, and up to the midline of his body. It was on the opposite side of his body from the prosthetic limb— curious, to be sure, but he wasn’t so uncouth as to inquire about it. 

“Why don’t you give us some time,” said Bucky, answering his question. He felt bad, delaying Steve further, but it couldn’t be helped. He and Darcy needed a chance to, as his therapist would say, ‘ _process_ ’ this— alone. 

“As you wish,” said Loki, and then he took a breath and added, “If I may…” He turned his hand so that it was palm up, as though cupping an invisible sphere, and with a quick glow of light, a small, luminous orb, about the size of a golf ball, appeared in his hand. He held it out to Bucky. 

“Take it,” he said. “When you are ready for the Captain to return, throw this into the hearth. Its disintegration shall resonate within me, and I shall know that you are more… agreeable to visitors.” 

Bucky nodded and accepted the orb, looked at it curiously as he held it with his fingers. “Sounds good,” he said. 

“Then I shall take my leave of you,” said Loki, with a brisk, formal nod, but before he could teleport away, Barnes had quickly shuffled to move the little orb to his left hand, holding it together with the gathered ends of the fur around his hips, freeing his flesh hand, which he reached out to Loki, offering it to him in a gesture of thanks. 

Loki stared at it for a moment, uncomprehending, his lips falling open slightly. 

“Thank you,” said Bucky, nodding his head curtly to emphasize the sentiment, maintaining the offering, his large hand still waiting, outstretched. 

Loki reached out, bypassing the hand to clasp the other man’s forearm, doing it properly, and felt Barnes’ hand do likewise, and they held there a minute, and then Barnes nodded once again, released him, and stepped back. 

Loki was speechless, a tightness in his chest, and quickly, before he could do or say anything to shame himself, he bathed his body in shimmering golden light, closed his eyes, concentrating for a moment, breathed out slowly, and was gone.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it wasn't clear, in this version of things Loki does NOT masquerade as Odin after the events on Svartalfheim in Thor:TDW. As much as I LOVED that whole scene that Taika Waititi had with him watching the play on Asgard in Thor: Ragnarok, I've sort of always felt that Loki would find actual sovereign rule extremely tedious and not worth all the trouble, even for the perks it would afford both materially and to his ego. He'd be so much better off being a trusted advisor, without the responsibilities that would come along with the throne. Anyway, in this verse my vision was that he snuck back, did a few things on Asgard, and then went into semi-permanent hiding, biding his time for... something.  
> ———————

Once Loki had vanished and the room was quiet again, Bucky just stood there for a moment, replaying it all in his head, knowing he wasn’t imagining it, but still having trouble believing it. 

He could hear the quiet hiss of the steam-shower coming from the open doorway to the bathroom, and the sound of it grounded him, reminded him that his girl was in there, upset, overwhelmed… likely just as much as he was, but not as adept at masking it, which was just one of the many things that made their relationship work so well. They couldn’t ignore problems; couldn’t sit on them. 

Not that this was a problem. But, just as he’d told Loki, it was a lot. A completely unexpected, life-changing, nuclear bomb of a revelation. 

And here he’d thought getting ‘bound’ was gonna be the big event of this experience, the thing he didn’t want to forget. Not that it mattered whether they remembered this— if it was really true, then the effects would follow them back home, change their future, without their having any idea why or how, their restored fertility like some unrecognized stowaway, an invisible souvenir… 

He set the little glowing orb down on the table, in an empty wooden saucer among the mostly-untouched refreshments, and then dropped the fur from his hips, tossed it over the back of one of the chairs, and stepped naked through the doorway to the bathroom. 

He could see her in there in the chamber, the dark hint of her shape, through the steamed-up glass; it looked like she was sitting on the floor inside. 

He held up his prosthetic palm so that he could see it, did a complicated sequence of taps and swipes upon it with the fingers of his other hand, and then put in a code on the tiny screen that came up on his wrist. He could feel the subtle click in his shoulder as the locking mechanism disengaged, and then he reached up and, with a simple twist, removed the entire arm. He set it down on the larger of the two shelves, shoving the various bottles and vials out of the way. 

He opened the door to the steam chamber and was hit by a blast of hot mist, and could see the thick vapor swirling like waves in the air as it escaped into the comparatively cool bathroom. Darcy was sitting on the floor of the chamber, looking like a tiny ball— legs bent up, knees under her chin, arms wrapped tightly around herself— and even though she was completely soaked and had rivulets of water running down her face, Bucky could tell she’d been crying. 

He slowly crouched down next to her, stretching his legs out as he leaned back carefully against the glass-like walls of the chamber, and took a deep breath of the thick, humid air. It was like sitting in a sauna, but better, as he could feel the chemical —or perhaps, magical— properties of the steam bath pulling dirt and impurities out of his skin. 

He was taking another breath, preparing to say something to her, though he hadn’t decided _what_ , exactly… maybe something light, like how his fingernails had never been so clean— just wanting to break the silence so that _she_ would start talking, as he knew she needed to— when she slowly unfolded her legs and quietly crawled the few inches over into his lap, fitting herself sideways between his legs and allowing the rest of her body to sink into his broad chest. 

His flesh arm came around to hold her, shifting his hips a little as he adjusted the position of her body where it pressed against him, laughing a little as he said, “Watch it there, sweetheart— don’t wanna crush my balls… ‘specially now that we know they ain’t just there for decoration…” 

And she started crying again then— he could feel it, as she quaked against him, and he held her to him with his one arm, and he was breathing heavily, still holding back his own emotions, until he wasn’t anymore… finally letting go when it surged up inside, unstoppable, his own tears blending with the tracks of condensed steam running down his face, and they just lay there, crying together, holding onto each other on the floor of the shower… 

He didn’t know how long they lay there, not even speaking— just feeling the feelings, letting the reality of it sink in— but they were both starting to drift, and even he was feeling a little weak from the press of the hot, thick mist around them, and finally he took in a shuddering breath, leaned down to kiss the top of her head and then turned his face to rest his cheek there while he breathed, and said, “We should prob’ly get outa here before we pass out.” 

She ignored the statement, responding instead with a question, the first words she’d spoken since Loki had teleported away to leave them alone. 

“Do you think it’s really… real? Do you believe him?” 

He didn’t answer right away, working through it all in his head again, even though he already knew what his gut was telling him. 

“Yeah,” he finally said, and rotated his jaw against her head again, switching sides to rest his other cheek against her hair. “No reason for him to lie about it,” he said. “Nothin’ to gain from it, that I can think of.” He paused again and then added, “I mean, I know the guy’s got the reputation for bein’ a master of lies or whatever, but… even if he did it to get on our good side… what would be the point? We’re not gonna remember he did it, so it ain’t like we’re gonna be sendin’ him thank-you cards in the mail…” 

She didn’t respond right away, and he added, “I did, though— thank him, I mean. He was… surprised. Embarrassed, almost.” 

She chuckled then a little, in between a series of sniffles, and he reached down to clasp one of her soft little hands. “What is it?” 

“It’s just…” She pulled her head back a little, so she could look up at him, see his face, and he looked down at her, released her hand to smooth the wet hair away from her forehead. 

“All this time,” she said. “This past year, when we were trying to figure out what to do… what we needed, to make it happen, if there was gonna be any chance, and I didn’t know who we were gonna ask if it couldn’t be Steve…” 

He’d sucked in a little breath at her acknowledgement— “Yeah, I know about that,” she said, and then continued, “And I was freaking out, because it felt like time was starting to get away from me…” 

A little tear leaked out of her eye then, and he smoothed it away with his thumb as she continued her thought. “I kept having these stupid ideas, like what we really needed was… some kind of angel or something. Some supernatural force to just come down and tell us what to do, to show us the way…” 

He smiled a little, pulled another stray curl away from where it stuck to her face, and she looked so beautiful, her skin so fresh and full of life… 

What Loki had said, about their both being obviously _fertile_ … he could believe it, about _her_ — her soft, curvy body like some kind of damn fertility idol come to life— and he’d hated that he hadn’t been able to be the right partner for her in that… his body, in comparison, like some kind of cursed thing, chopped up and put back together with mangled, defective parts… 

She’d always protested that it didn’t matter— that if they wanted a family, they’d find a way, even if it wasn’t the way most people did it, and there were so many more options now… 

And he’d believed that, been totally on board with it— knew he’d love any child that they chose to raise together… that having his own biology involved wasn’t even really the point: that it was more of a conceit, or maybe a remnant of ancient times, when expanding and protecting your own tribe was paramount… 

But that was logic speaking… 

Emotionally, if he was honest, it’d still hurt, knowing that his own body couldn’t contribute anything to the process… a secret, selfish part of him still longing for that magic of making something totally new, uniquely _them_ … 

And now maybe they could, after all, and it scared him a little, the wave of longing he had, for it to be true… to have that _chance_ … 

“You suggestin’ Loki’s some kinda angel?” he asked her now, with a little smile. 

“Maybe,” she said. “I mean, metaphorically speaking. For us. I mean—” And then she stopped because her lower lip was wobbling again, trying to hold it in, and then she just whispered, “ _God, Bucky_ ,” and fell back into his arms as she released the emotion again. 

“I know, sweetheart,” he said, kissing the top of her head again as his hand smoothed down her skin, soothing her. “I know.” 

And a few minutes later he sat up a bit and said, “Come on,” and scooped her into his body with the one arm, and then pushed them both up with his strong thighs. He held her against him, only letting go to switch to the dry cycle for a few seconds— just enough to dry the socket for his arm— and then shut the system off and popped open the door of the chamber. 

He stepped out, his arm still wrapped around her, lifting her feet off the ground as they exited the chamber. He lowered her to the floor just long enough to grab his arm off the shelf, stuck it back into the socket and put in the code to lock it in place, and then picked her up again, lifting her up high this time so that she could wrap her bare body around him, and carried her through the common area toward the bedroom. 

He stepped through the doorway where he’d left her the night before, when they’d joked about dating… where he’d bit his lip as he’d watched her crawl into bed without him, and they’d both had to push down their urges— those frisky, familiar, playful kinds of come-ons that they loved to tease each other with… 

It was a different kind of energy now, and he lay her down carefully among the rumpled blankets and furs of the bed, something quiet about it, tender, as they rolled into each other, entwining their legs, hands smoothing over skin slowly, almost reverent… 

They were touching as if they hadn’t done this a thousand times before, their bodies the same but different, an electricity there that charged each touch with a weight of emotion and significance that made the air catch in his lungs… 

She began to breathe into his skin, kissing him everywhere— his chest, his neck, his jaw and then his mouth, both of them giving over to it now, the noises breaking from their throats as they wound their tongues together, tasting each other… 

Her hand was reaching down to feel him, gently at first, and then more needy, pulling on him as he hardened, trying to bring him to her, and he made another sound— wanting, aching— as he rolled his body on top of hers, nudging her legs apart with his knees as he fit his hips in between, reaching his hand down to stroke her open, soft and warm and wet, before moving back to grasp himself, guide his way in… 

He moved both his hands to the bed, on either side of her as he pressed in further, and she bent her legs, her hips canting up to meet him halfway as she wrapped her calves around his body, pulling him into her, her heat sliding around him, enveloping him as they pushed and pulled, until he was slick with her, sliding easily back out and in again. 

Her hands were on his back, feeling the play of his muscles as he moved inside her, and he was almost shivering, his breath shuddering as he filled her, over and over, and she was whispering his name as he spoke to her with his body, all the emotions they were both feeling, and his eyes were stinging, his breath coming faster, and he’d never before cried while making love to her, but he may have been now, and his head dropped so that he could kiss her again, giving into it… 

And he could feel the fluttering low down in his abdomen, his ass clenching as his balls tightened, and any other time he would’ve felt bad for how fast it’d been, but not this time— just wanting to fill her up with everything he had, to spill into her as he loved her, and he was squeezing the furs next to her on the bed with his hand, a tightening that matched the pressure that was building in him, pooling in the head of his dick as his heart sped up, shivers racing across his neck and back down his spine to his ass, and he was trembling, tingling as she clenched around him, his hips shaking, involuntary, and he cried out loud as he came, the contractions overwhelming, pulsing it into her, and she was holding him there, both hands on his ass, gripping him tight, keeping them locked together as he felt himself emptying completely… 

When he opened his eyes, he saw that hers were still shut, and she looked so beautiful lying there, holding him, his body still inside of her, connected to her, maybe— hopefully— leaving something behind this time, something _alive_ … 

And he was overcome again, and he wanted to stay there, keep himself buried in her, high up inside, just to make sure, but he was already flagging, and after another few seconds he slipped out gently, let the weight of his lower body rest against the bed as he stared at her, almost unbelieving, like it had to be a dream… 

Some long, crazy, fucked-up dream that his head had devised to keep him warm… like back in the war, when he’d fantasize about the safety of a soft bed and the simple luxury of a clean, dry blanket… 

He’d been good at it, that willing slide into the illusion he’d constructed, if even for a short time, and he’d never thought about it before, but maybe that’d made it easier for Hydra, how even before they remade him, it came natural to him… going somewhere else in his head, making up a different story… doing what he had to, to escape the reality of the bone-cold chill of a muddy ditch he was sharing with eight other shivering, miserable guys, each of them locked in his own private hell… 

Maybe it was like that— maybe he was somewhere else— because that made more sense, didn’t it? It wouldn’t be the first time he’d gone away in his head, not by a long shot, though it’d never been quite this vivid. But maybe he was… maybe they were back at the cabin still, or even the Tower, and he was gonna wake up and none of it would be real, and he’d been _fine_ with it before— he’d been _happy_ — so why would he do this to himself, why would he want to dream this up, only to torture… 

And her eyes opened then, and her hand came up to smooth against the wiry hairs of his beard and she whispered, “What is it,” seeing the worry on his face, and he almost started crying again, because he loved her so much and he wanted it to be real… 

“What if it’s…” He swallowed, and then he rolled off, onto his back, lying by her side, and shut his eyes again. “What if none of it’s real? What if this is all just in my head, somethin’ my fucked-up head cooked up to punish myself…” And he lost it again for a moment, his chest heaving. “ _God_ , I want it to be real…” 

It took her a moment, but then he heard her voice beside him, clear and sure and saying it like fact, no doubt in her mind: “It _is_ real. I know it is.” 

She rolled toward him and said, “And if we’re really gonna make a baby,” and her voice cracked then, just a little, overcome for a moment herself, before repeating it— “If we make a _baby_ … then our biggest problem isn’t gonna be convincing you that it’s real; it’s gonna be convincing you that it’s _yours_.” 

She rested her head on his chest, her arm reaching around to hold him, and said, “God, boo, you’re gonna think I cheated on you or something…” 

He hadn’t thought of that yet, and he tried to imagine it, as he lay there, staring up at the featureless grey ceiling— tried to put himself into the mind of his future self, the feelings he’d have, finding out that she was pregnant… 

“No,” he finally said, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m not gonna think that. I’m gonna… _Christ_ , sweetheart, I’m gonna think it’s a fuckin’ miracle. That some kinda…” 

“Angel?” she suggested, smiling. 

“Yeah,” he said softly, and then he rolled toward her, and she adjusted herself to face him, shifting back onto her side so that they were staring into each other’s eyes, and his prosthetic hand came up to stroke his thumb against her cheek. 

“An angel,” he said, echoing her. “That some kinda angel paid us a visit and made me whole again, so I could give you—” He closed his eyes and rephrased, letting himself feel it. “Give _us_ … the life we want… the whole thing, all of it…” 

He felt her take his hand— the artificial one that she’d made for him— and she kissed the fingertips, and he could feel it, the input tickling his nerves through the contacts in the socket, wired into the living parts of him in a unique sensation that he’d grown to love. 

“You know,” he said then, thoughtfully, opening his eyes. “The angels I learned about as a kid— the ones they talk about in the Bible— they ain’t like the ones in the movies. Some of them are terrifying. Killin’ thousands of people. Rainin’ down death and destruction, all in the name of God.” 

“You’re not saying you really think he could be an angel, are you?” she asked, uneasily. “I was just… messing around.” 

“Nah,” he said, “You know I don’t believe in that stuff no more. I mean, it’s hard to know what exactly he really is, or what he aims to do, but I don’t think he’s playin’ a game with us… ’least, not about this.” 

He rolled onto his back again and let out a quiet breath. “M’just sayin’… maybe he’s more like one of those angels in the Bible— like… a messenger. I think what he did for us… he was just givin’ us the information… givin’ us the choice. _Not_ tellin’ us, knowin’ what he knew… _that_ woulda been evil— but I don’t know if he was doin’ it to be good, either.” 

“I don’t know,” she said, and she rolled onto her back as well, joined him in staring up at the ceiling. “I’m getting a weird vibe from him. Like he wants to reach out… wants to see what it’s like to… not be so alone, or something. I mean, he didn’t have to say _anything_ to us— we never would’ve known the difference. So why did he?” 

“He likes you,” said Bucky, and he smiled a little. “Could be as simple as that.” He used his leg to push himself back onto his side, propping his head on his hand so he could look down at her as he smirked. “Maybe he’s just tryin’ to impress a pretty girl.” 

“Hm,” she said. “Maybe. I mean, that’s a better explanation than, ‘ _Loki’s an angel_.’ But if we get back, and I get a surprise no-show of my monthly visitor in a couple of weeks, you got any advice for what I should say to you? If you wind up thinking it’s something other than supernatural forces at work?” 

She was grinning, teasing him, and he leaned down to kiss her, just his mouth gently capturing the softness of her upper lip, and then he pulled back and said, “Yeah. You can tell future-me to pull his goddamned head out of his ass. That my girl loves me, and I love her, and that the only explanation is that there’s been some kinda goddamn miracle.” 

“Okay,” she said, laughing a little, because it was all irrelevant anyway— neither of them would remember any of this, and these conversations would disappear as though they’d never existed. 

Even so, it felt good to talk about it. And who knew— maybe some subconscious part of them _would_ remember… like the stuff about wanting a real wedding… her hope that when it came up, for real, back at home, some deeply-buried part of her mind would flip a switch and alter her thinking, even if she wouldn’t be consciously aware of it… 

“God, we’re gonna be so surprised and confused, though,” she said, and blew out a breath. “If what Loki said was true… that we’re both, like… _mega_ -fertile… then it might happen soon. Like, _real_ soon…” 

“I wish I could see myself,” he said softly. “When I find out.” And then he was grinning, one of those smiles that spread across the width of his face, and it made her breath hitch again when she looked over and saw it, saw the happiness written there at even the _possibility_ , and it was like it hit her all over again, that maybe this was really gonna happen— maybe Bucky was gonna get to be a _daddy_ — make a little crew of dark-haired, butt-chinned terrors with her… 

Well, maybe not a whole _crew_ — she was getting too old for that, running out of time— but just _one_ would be fine. More than fine… 

It was something they’d packed away, a long time ago, knowing it could never be… and now here it was… maybe… maybe it _could_ be… and she slid over on the covers, pushing him onto his back again, so that she could mold her body to his, and she closed her eyes and said a quiet prayer to the Universe— a whispered entreaty that said, ‘ _Please… please let us have this_ …’ 

And then one more whisper in her head, just as quiet, but this one went out to the trickster— to the criminal, the fugitive, the enemy of her friends— the _maybe-an-angel_ … just two simple words that said it all: 

_Thank you_. 

<<>>

Steve had already returned to the room and had his back to the door, staring into the hearth, by the time Loki rematerialized and took a tentative few steps toward one of the chairs. He’d been perfectly silent— no spilled nuts to tread upon here— but the other man sensed his presence anyway, and he turned and spoke immediately, as though to preemptively strike down any possibility of lingering awkwardness… likely wishing to erase what had happened before, loath to acknowledge it even through an uncomfortable silence. 

“You check in with the others?” he asked. 

“Yes,” said Loki. He’d been surprised to see the Captain back in the room already— had assumed he’d want to avoid his company for the remainder of the stay. Now that they were together, Loki found he was just as eager to obliterate all memory of his failed overture, and was glad they were apparently of one mind about it. 

“They done yet?” Steve pressed. 

“Yes and no,” said Loki, finally allowing himself to fall tiredly into one of the overstuffed chairs. 

Steve rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t say he was surprised by the news. 

“I have provided the means to notify us, when they are… settled,” added Loki, while Steve shuffled over to the other big chair, across from him, and sank into it, shutting his eyes momentarily. 

Steve had considered trying to take a cat-nap, but within seconds of shutting his eyes, realized that there was no way he was going to be able to sleep— at least not there; not with Loki staring at him. 

He opened his eyes again, and looked at the other man: he seemed uncharacteristically quiet, and he wasn’t staring at Steve, but rather off into space, a unidentifiable look on his face. If Steve didn’t know any better, he might have thought it was… _concern_. 

“You all right?” asked Steve, a bit unnerved. 

Instead of answering the question, Loki asked one of his own. “Your friend,” he said. “Barnes. He would not… hurt her, would he?” 

“What?” said Steve, surprised, and he sat up a bit. “What are you— I mean, no. _God_ , no. Why would you—” 

“She has a scar,” said Loki. “She’s been… carved into— were you aware? Quite severely, I should say, some time in the past. By a sharp blade, from the look of it.” 

“Oh, that,” said Steve, relaxing again, and he let out a audible breath. “No… that’s— they got into some bad business, years ago. Held prisoner by a crazy person, tryin’ to get revenge. She cut Darcy open a little, hopin’ to get her to bleed out— slowly, makin’ Bucky watch.” 

“What happened?” said Loki, curious. 

“Darcy managed to get out,” said Steve. “But she went back, for Bucky… shot the woman. Twice. Killed her.” 

“Impressive,” said Loki, meaning it. He wouldn’t have guessed that Darcy Lewis had it in her, to electively take a life. She didn’t seem the type. 

“She almost died,” said Steve. “Savin’ Bucky’s life. Saved him from bein’ taken back, I mean. Which he woulda considered worse than death, so…” 

Loki was nodding. “And his back? That was a result of the same… incident?” 

“No,” said Steve, his forehead pinching together, wondering what state they’d been in, over in the other cottage, if Loki’d gotten such an eyeful of their scars. “That, uh… they fell out of a plane. He caught her, on the way down. Flipped over so she wouldn’t die on impact. Broke their fall in some trees. He took all the force of it on that side, I guess. Darcy said he was… that there was nothin’ there, after— just torn-up meat and bones…” 

As if he could hear the question unspoken, behind Loki’s eyes, he added, “He’s a good man.” 

“He told me about being… taken. Turned into some kind of weapon. For— he characterized them as ‘ _evil_ ’…” 

Steve raised his eyes. “He told you that?” 

Loki stood up, began to walk around the room. “I asked him about the arm. Whether he was telling the truth, about losing it in a war…” 

“Ah,” said Steve, and he was quiet for a while, just listening to the crackle of the hearth, as Loki continued to pace quietly. 

“There some reason you’re so curious about him?” asked Steve finally. “Besides some kinda… concern for Darcy?” 

“If he was an effective… weapon for such a group,” said Loki, again ignoring Steve’s question. He sounded cautious, choosing the words carefully. “How is it that— that is to say, how was he permitted to… why has he been allowed to roam free? Why is he not in one of your prisons?” 

Steve leaned back further in his chair, letting his weight sink into the leathery cushions again. “Wasn’t easy,” he said. “Still isn’t. Lot of people out there still want to see him locked up. Killed even, for what he did, even if it was someone else callin’ the shots. But he’s worked hard to prove that he’s not— that he was never— that that’s not _him_. The things he did… they weren’t his choice. Not completely.” 

“Not completely,” repeated Loki, halting his pacing to give the Captain a significant look. 

“It’s complicated,” said Steve. 

“It always is,” said Loki, a little wryly, and he finally returned to his chair, trying to make himself comfortable, but only marginally succeeding. All of his parts felt restless, laced with some low murmur of tension. 

“Tell me, Captain,” he said. “These people who would lock up your friend— who see him only as a murderer, a… monster. What would you say to them? What would you have them know?” 

Steve sighed, thinking about it. “I guess I’d tell them that they don’t have the whole story. I’d ask them to listen, before passing judgement. To have— to try to have— an open mind.” 

“And had you ever considered extending that favor to me,” he said softly. He didn’t like that he’d said it aloud, but it was too late to take it back. 

Steve sat forward a little, but his voice was guarded. “You saying you got a story to tell that would change my mind about you?” 

“Would you even listen, were I to say I had?” said Loki, a little testy, and then he fell silent again, rubbing his fingers against his forehead in an uncharacteristically nervous display. 

He could sense the other man watching him from across the table that separated them, could feel that the Captain wanted to say something. Instead of prodding the man to speak— to manipulate him into revealing his thoughts before they were fully developed, as he would have in the past, like some kind of game— this time he waited, willing himself to be patient. 

“Maybe you’re thinking there’s no coming back,” the Captain finally ventured, his blue eyes not quite aimed at him as he spoke. “Bucky sure didn’t; not at first. Thought it was his destiny or something, or payment for what he’d done… to be miserable, always runnin’, hidin’. Didn’t stop tryin’, though. Seein’ if there was some way he could… make his life still matter somehow.” 

“He does not seem… so miserable now,” said Loki, with a slight smirk. 

“Yeah, well,” said Steve. “When we met Darcy… I mean, I don’t think he was expectin’ it, but… she’s it for him. Made a difference, right when he needed it. Gave him somethin’ else to care about, besides his own stake in all of it. Think it made him realize… I dunno, maybe that he could even still feel that way. About anything. Not just her, but… all of it. Don’t think he really believed it, before then.” 

“Would that we could all be so lucky,” said Loki, so quietly that Steve missed it, asking him to repeat what he’d said, and Loki raised his voice to restate it. “We are not all so… fortunate as your friend.” 

“Maybe not,” said Steve, wondering how Bucky would feel, to be cast as the _fortunate_ one. At this point he probably wouldn’t dispute it. 

“Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try,” he added. “Doing what you can to… make a difference.” 

“And is that what you do, Captain?” said Loki. “Make a difference?” 

His voice was polite, but there was the trace of a sneer in the words, as though the sentiment were so ingrained in him that it was as second-nature as breathing, no longer even a conscious choice. 

“I try,” said Steve, evenly. 

“And does this… _trying_ … grant you the happiness you seek?” 

Steve was quiet, because he felt like the only honest answer, at this point, was, ‘ _you know it doesn’t_ ,’ but then he just said, “It’s better than the alternative. Giving up. Letting someone else fight the battles, while you…” 

“What,” said Loki. He leaned forward. “What is it that you actually believe I _do_ with my time, Captain? Loll about? Make merry?” He said it derisively. 

Steve raised his eyebrows and said, “Well, by your own admission, the whole reason you got into this mess you’re in now, was because of huntin’ for ingredients you needed for… well, what I gathered was some sort of…” 

“Orgy?” supplied Loki, and he couldn’t help the grin that followed. 

Steve’s face broke into a quick smile as well, and he looked down at his hands, playing with his fingers in his lap. “Well, yeah,” he said, and when he looked up, his cheeks had pinked just slightly. 

“Fair enough,” said Loki, licking his lips as he sat back, shifting his hips a bit in the seat. “That I was. But… I assure you, such frivolities were not my… ambition, when I went into hiding.” His brow furrowed a little. “They are, rather, perhaps, the only thing keeping me sane at this point…” 

“Why did you, anyway?” said Steve. “Go into hiding?” 

Once again, Loki responded with a question of his own. “When your friend… Barnes,” he said. “When he… escaped?” 

Steve nodded, confirming it. 

“When he escaped from those who had… _used_ him… did he appear on your doorstep the following day? Did he… publish the news in one of your online journals? Announce his happy new situation to the world?” 

“No,” said Steve. “He, uh… he laid low. For a while. Didn’t tell anyone. He was livin’ on the street for about three years.” 

“And why do you suppose he did that?” asked Loki. “Why not seek the company… solicit the _aid_ of his friends? Surely he must have known that you would… support him.” 

“I don’t know that he did— that he knew that; not for sure.” said Steve softly. “He was… messed up. Trying to put his mind back together. His memories… they weren’t reliable. And then there was the risk of Hydra finding him again, takin’ him back…” 

“Hydra— that is an… entity?” 

“The group who had him,” Steve explained. “Terrorists. Bent on world domination. We’ve been fightin’ them since the war…” 

“Ah, yes,” said Loki. “I fail to stay current on your world’s little conflicts, but I do recall that name now. One of theirs had possession of the Tesseract for a time, did he not?” 

“Yeah,” said Steve. “He lost control of it around the same time they got their hands on Bucky… didn’t know it at the time, though… didn’t know they had him all those years…” 

“And his fear of recapture— was it a valid… concern? That they would seek to reclaim him? To remake him? To use him once again as a tool in their… enterprise?” 

“Yeah,” said Steve. “Still is, in fact. Maybe always will be.” 

“Well, there you have it,” said Loki, and he relaxed again. 

“You tellin’ me you’re hiding from someone?” said Steve, understanding finally where Loki had been leading him, with all of the questions about Bucky. “Not just… avoiding the— the punishment from what happened on Earth?” He was leaning forward, intent now. “Who? Who’re you hiding from?” 

“What is the point of my telling you?” said Loki. “The next time we meet, after this business is concluded, you shan’t remember any of this, and we shall be back to our little game of mutual… antagonism.” 

“Well then, by the same logic, what’s the point of _not_ tellin’ me?” countered Steve. “Maybe I can… I mean… maybe I can help. If you’ve been carrying this around by yourself for… however many years…” Steve was rubbing his own forehead now, but it wasn’t out of nerves… more like he was impatient. To speak of concrete things: tactics and strategy, maybe, rather than this back-and-forth of what felt like some kind of subtle manipulation, even if everything the man was saying was true. 

“Might do you good to get another set of ears on it,” he pressed. “Couldn’t hurt. Or maybe there’s something Thor could—” 

“ _Thor_ —” said Loki, sounding tired, turning his head to look to the side. “Short of attempting to _smash_ the stones, I fail to see what—” 

The Captain was quiet, waiting, and Loki was disturbed to find himself actually considering it— contemplating what it would be like, to unburden himself. Even more disconcerting was the obvious truth that he’d been guiding the conversation to such a destination all along, though he hadn’t thought he’d actually want to follow _through_ with it, seeking only the victory of the invitation. 

What would it be like? To confide in this… human. His enemy, by all accounts. 

The man did have a point. There was little harm in telling him; with any luck, they would be away from this wretched planet within another day, and he would cloud all memory of the events, including any conversations, in their minds. 

He could feel himself wavering. The desire to… share his story with someone… with _anyone_ … It was surprisingly strong… 

But more than that, there was something in particular about the man before him that was eliciting an unusual sensation inside… one so unfamiliar to him by now, that he failed to comprehend it at first… a feeling forged in equal parts logic and emotion, and it actually frightened him a little, when he was finally able to name it: 

_Trust_. 

He stood abruptly, startling the other man. 

“Would you care for some more Asgardian ale?” he said. “If I am to tell my story, I should like to drink some myself.” 

<<>>

Steve set down his tankard. It was as ornately decorated as the previous one, though the scene was not as suggestive as the last— this time it featured a lone rider on a horse against a snowy backdrop, his deep blue cape wrapped around the lower half of his face as he drove his way into the oncoming storm. He was certain that Loki hadn’t chosen it randomly, but he didn’t know which of them the rider was meant to represent. 

He’d slowly sipped his way to the bottom of the vessel as he’d listened to Loki’s long story. He was feeling the pleasant buzz of the alcohol, but it hadn’t lessened his will to listen closely to the tale, nor tempered the seriousness with which he considered it. 

Loki, for his part, was on his fourth full draw of the strong drink, magically refilling his own tankard each time he emptied it, though Steve could detect no hint of inebriation in the man. 

“So you’re stuck forever?” asked Steve. “Hiding from this… Thanos?” 

“Perhaps,” said Loki. “Perhaps not. One never knows what may come… mayhap some day a stronger being shall come along with a grievance against the Titan, and put an end to his mad schemes…” 

“There isn’t any other way to fight him? Weaken him?” 

“Our best bet,” said Loki, “at this point, is to ensure that he never find the means to bring together all of the stones. I have taken care of the Tesseract personally, for the time being. I am aware of your people’s… experiments with the Mind Stone, and of its current home in the being you call the ‘ _Vision_ ’. I would… recommend you find a way to remove it to a more… concealed position. Or, failing that, to destroy it.” 

He glanced up at Steve, who was still listening intently, and then huffed a laugh before draining the remainder of his tankard. “Forgive me,” he said, as he set the vessel down on the low table. “Even I had forgotten, for a moment, that we speak only hypothetically— that you will take none of this knowledge back with you. This entire conversation is pointless.” 

He was still leaning forward, and he looked up at the Captain again, moving only his eyes, his head still tipped down. “You do realize, it was the Mind Stone that allowed the Titan to control me… and, through me, your own people… Mr. Selvig… Mr. Barton. It is far too dangerous an artifact to leave unprotected— worn brazenly in the open, ripe for the taking…” 

“What do you mean, you’ve taken care of the Tesseract,” said Steve, troubled by everything he was being told, and by the knowledge that there was little he could do with it. “Last I saw, you and Thor were taking it back to Asgard.” 

“That we did,” said Loki. “And it was placed into Odin’s treasure chamber.” He made a scoffing sound. “Ridiculous. As if that would stop an attempt by—” 

“It’s not there anymore?” asked Steve. 

“It is not,” said Loki. “When I— after my… ‘ _death_ ’, on Svartalfheim, I was able to return to Asgard, in disguise, for a brief period of time. It was my first chance, after Thor released me from the dungeons, to gain access to the Tesseract. To replace it with a… replica.” 

“But how could you—” Steve looked confused. “What I gathered, from Thor’s stories… your father— Odin— wouldn’t he… how can he not know?” 

“Mother,” said Loki, and he smiled, just a tiny fond look flitting across his features. “Over the years, she conveyed to me certain… enchantments… of which even the All-Father is ignorant… it may well be that she foresaw all of this, and gave me the means to keep it hidden…” 

“Huh,” said Steve, leaning back again. “So where is it now?” 

“Safe,” said Loki, cryptically. When Steve looked at him pointedly, he added, “Believe me, Captain, the less you know about it, the better. For now, I am the only creature in the Realms who knows of its location; provided that Thanos believe me dead, there is no risk to its whereabouts being discovered.” 

“Which is why you have to stay hidden,” said Steve. 

“Indeed,” said Loki. “Were he to discover proof of my… continued existence, he would seek me out upon the inevitable discovery of the facsimile in the treasure room. He would find me, take me, torture the answer out of me. Without question. Without mercy.” 

He shook his head and looked down. “Had I any real courage, I’d take my own life, and the location of the Tesseract along with it.” He furrowed his brow, as though that thought had only just now occurred to him. 

Steve was quiet, taking it all in. He leaned to take up his tankard again, but then stopped, remembering that he’d already drained it. 

“You would care for more?” asked Loki, noticing the movement. 

“No, that’s— aw, hell, why not,” said Steve, and Loki grinned and splayed the fingers of his right hand out, in the direction of the tankard, and a moment later, when Steve leaned forward to look inside, it was filled to the top with a fresh draw of beer. “Amazing,” he said, sniffing at it, just as he had the first time, as though still doubting it real. 

Loki resisted the urge to preen a little, and Steve saved him from embarrassing himself by abruptly shifting the topic. “So are you able to do… I mean, do Frost Giants— do they use magic too?” he asked. “Do you have to be in that… form— I dunno, whatever you call it… to use it? Or to access it? Sorry, I don’t know the right words, for…” 

Loki swallowed, reluctant to speak of his true form beyond the basic facts he’d conveyed in the telling of his tale, though the Captain had made no outward sign that he harbored negative feelings about his heritage. Not that he had any reason to; most humans had no knowledge of Jötunheim’s existence, much less an opinion of its inhabitants, beyond the ludicrous fairy stories that had been passed down as tales from long ago, when both Jötnar and Aesir had visited Midgard openly… 

“They do, yes— have certain impressive… capabilities,” he finally said. “But it is yet quite debilitating for me to take on that form… to harness the energies required, to access the… talents of my natural state. Odin’s magic is very powerful, and to push back against the illusion he cast over me when I was but a babe… well, it is…” He laughed for a second, without humor, and then finished the sentence: “uncomfortable.” 

“Without some other force to push me into that… condition,” he continued, “I am only able to maintain it for limited durations.” 

“What do you mean, ‘some other force’,” asked Steve. 

“There are certain conditions that draw my true nature to the surface,” said Loki. “As I’ve already related, being touched by another… Jötunn. Laying hands on one of their powerful artifacts. I also have reason to believe that grave injury could cause me to… revert to my natural state, as a defense mechanism.” 

“Thor didn’t mention any—” 

“Clearly, I was not so gravely injured on Svartalfheim as I led him to believe.” 

“You ever think about tryin’ to get rid of the illusion altogether?” asked Steve. “Just be who you were… meant to be?” 

“No,” said Loki. 

The way he said it, with such finality, made Steve feel that he should probably drop it, and he looked down instead of pressing the point, took a long drink of his beer. He was tracing the contours of the carving on the tankard with his fingertips, admiring the skill of the ceramicist, and he got lost for a moment in what he saw as the solitude of the lone horseman, braced against the onslaught of the blizzard even as he pressed forward. 

“You know, you don’t always have to go it alone,” he said quietly. “You may think you’re on your own, but… there are other people who would listen. Who would help. I mean, I don’t know if any of us would be of any use against…” He sighed, sounding a little sad. “I don’t know,” he repeated. “But it might be worth it to find out.” 

It took Loki a moment to breathe, processing the words, the extraordinary idea that anybody, least of all his _enemy_ , might think it— _him_ — ‘worth it’… and when he was able, Loki drew in the air he needed, schooled his features as best he could, and then tipped his head in acknowledgment. 

“I shall… consider it, Captain,” he said, and he was proud that he’d managed to keep his voice steady. 

The other man nodded back, looked him in the eye, and said, just as evenly, “My friends call me Steve.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe this is over 80k. This was supposed to be a funny, short little romp, and now look at it. It'll be over 100k of mostly feels and gloom by the time it's done (which will be soon). I'm seriously starting to doubt whether I'm capable of writing something lighthearted. And on that cheery note, enjoy! lol  
> \----------

Steve had started to drift off, but he woke suddenly when Loki erupted in delighted laughter— an unusual sound, one he hadn’t heard much of from the man before. He looked over to where Loki was still seated, across from him; he was engrossed in a dusty-looking tome, his shoulders shaking with mirth. 

“Tis hard to believe possible,” he said, once he’d noticed Steve was awake, “but their beliefs about Asgard and my family are even more ridiculous than those of your own ancestors.” 

He snickered again. “It says here that— and I quote— ‘ _Asgardians know little of the magical arts, but a few of their kind have attempted to learn the rudiments of crude sorcery. These witches are reviled by their own people and cast out upon discovery. Asgardians favor the use of enchanted weaponry over the more intellectual demands of true magical mastery_.” 

“Well, that last part is true,” he said in a conceding tone, and then read on: ‘ _Their ancient enemies, the Jötnar, surpass them in all ways: size, strength, and both martial and magical ability. Their only weakness being a lack of intellectual prowess, they nevertheless are more than a match for their Asgardian foes, who are only slightly more intelligent. Our own records of encounters with these terrible creatures are limited, for good reason. They are a fearsome race: brute beasts who understand little of the power they wield, and are best avoided._ ’ 

Loki didn’t smile as much at that passage, but then he forced out a chuckle and flipped back a few pages. “Listen to this: “ _It is rumored that the younger issue of the king of Asgard is half-man, half-snake. Some have whispered that he takes the form of a gigantic viper when his hunger arises and that it can only be sated by the flesh of untouched maidens_.’” 

He tittered again and shut the book. “Where do these rumors come from? Well, at least they do not claim me to have lain with a horse, as your world’s myths would have you believe.” 

“Oh, that one’s not true, huh?” said Steve, with a completely straight face, making Loki break out into another grin at the playful ribbing, and Steve couldn’t help it— he broke character and laughed himself, and it was so strange, this fledgling… he wouldn’t say _friendship_ — not exactly— but it was picking at the edges of it. 

It was getting late, and Steve was getting tired of waiting for the all-clear from the other cottage, which was going to come as some kind of vibration or inner sense that apparently only Loki could feel. Steve managed to stay awake for almost another hour, listening to Loki read out more ludicrous passages from the book, when finally Loki sat up quite suddenly in his seat and said, “Ah. They are ready for you to return.” 

Steve insisted on taking a few minutes to help tidy up the mess on the table, and then, when he was ready, Loki teleported them both directly to the common area of the other cottage, which was empty and quiet. 

“Huh,” said Steve, risking a glance into the dark bedroom, where he could see the shadowy outlines of their shapes under the covers. “Guess they went straight to bed, after lettin’ you know.” 

“They have earned their rest, to be sure,” said Loki, with deliberate humor. 

Steve huffed a short laugh in reply and then said, “Hey, that jump didn’t even feel like nothin’. Is it because it was such a short distance?” 

“Yes,” said Loki, leaning down to take some of the leftover nibbles from the table. He was surprised by how little food the others had eaten, in light of their activities. He, for one, had a voracious appetite in the aftermath of any carnal pursuits. 

“It is a matter of distance, but also speed,” said Loki, elaborating on his answer. 

“Speed?” asked Steve. He was picking up the few furs that were still left on the couch— what was to be his bed again— and looking at them uneasily. They seemed… used, and he resisted the instinct to find out by sniffing… “You mean, how fast you pull us through?” 

“No,” said Loki. “The difference between the speed of the departure location versus the destination can cause… discomfort. The final jump was particularly uncomfortable, and a greater strain on my well of _seiðr_ not only because of the great distance involved, but also the vast difference in speed of this planet relative to yours. To be precise, your world is traveling through space 282,647,041 meters per second faster than this one.” 

“That so?” said Steve, as he dumped the questionable furs on the floor behind the couch. He found some fresh folded ones on the lower shelf of the sideboard, and set out making up a bed for himself on the couch with them. 

“If we were to remain here much longer, you would become aware of the passage of time upon your return, even with my alteration of your memory. You would… realize you had lost some time, and attempt to seek a reason for your memory lapse. As is, we have…” He stopped to calculate for a moment. “We must endeavor to return to the cabin no later than late afternoon tomorrow, should we wish to avoid a noticeable loss of time on your end. There will be an unavoidable discrepancy of, oh… maybe forty minutes? For the time spent during the other jumps, between the realms that do not have an appreciable difference of speed from your own. But I shouldn’t think you will notice a loss of forty-odd minutes. You were all rather engaged in your word game.” 

Steve smiled, thinking about it. “Yeah,” he said. “Darcy was arguin’ up a storm about that word. ‘ _Fuck-sweat_ ’.” 

“It’s a good word,” said Loki, without a trace of sarcasm. “Were I the judge of the match, I should grant her the full honor of points deserved for both the word itself and for making use of all of her tiles.” 

“You play Scrabble?” asked Steve, and he was laughing a little, imagining it. 

“It’s a good game,” said Loki defensively. “I used to play it with Mother when I was a boy— well, a version of it, of course; your realm’s variant did not come into being for many hundreds of years later.” 

He smiled then, lost in a memory for a moment. “She would set it up for me when I grew weary of chasing after Thor and his friends, on their tiresome quests to dominate helpless reptiles and insects of the wood… she would let me win at first, as I suppose all mothers do… and then, when I became quite skilled, she dropped such pretense and battled me true. She was very good.” He laughed then. “Odin refused to engage her,” he said. “He knew well that he could not best her.” 

Steve was watching him in the flicker of light, as he spoke of the woman who’d birthed and reared Thor, the God of Thunder, and had also taken on the task, Steve now knew, of raising the abandoned child of their enemy, brought home in secret from the great battle on Jötunheim. 

“You must miss her,” he said quietly. 

“She was the most formidable being I have ever known,” said Loki simply, and then he looked up at Steve, his face oddly open and blank at the same time. 

“I should go,” he said then, snapping out of it. “We must be on our toes tomorrow.” 

“You expectin’ a fight?” asked Steve. 

“No,” said Loki. “But these creatures are both rigid and untrustworthy. A most unpleasant combination. We would do well to be ready for anything.” 

“Understood,” said Steve. “Well, then. Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight,” said Loki, and moment later, he was gone. 

<<>>

The couch really wasn’t that bad, especially with the two tankards of Asgardian ale in his belly, which helped shepherd Steve into a deep, almost dreamless sleep. But once he’d awakened, his head was right back at it— aswirl with thoughts— a restless rehashing, in his mind, of all the things Loki had revealed to him. Not just about himself, which would have been plenty to think about on its own, but also about the creature he’d referred to as the ‘ _Mad Titan_ ’— Thanos— and the threat he posed to every soul in the Universe. 

A part of him had wanted to suggest that Loki not wipe their memories at all. It felt like they’d come to some sort of cautious understanding, and Steve found himself burdened by some of the things he’d been told. At the very least, Vision had a right to know the risk he invited, in harboring the Mind Stone so openly. To seek alternatives, if there were any. 

He realized, of course, that this was precisely the reason Loki would find it necessary to cloud their memories— even if Darcy hadn’t made it a condition; Loki couldn’t risk any of them inadvertently revealing that he was still alive. Much as with Bucky and Hydra, Steve got the impression that the man would prefer death by his own hand to being taken by the Titan again. It was unnerving, to say the least, to know of a being out there who inspired that level of fear in one as powerful as Loki. 

But even if Steve could convince himself that he could resist revealing his ‘source’ (which was not something he was even certain of, if he was honest), he knew his teammates— knew how they’d react if he showed up with such a bizarre tale… a warning about a giant purple man from outer space who was determined to wipe out half of all life in the Universe using a collection of colorful gems. 

They wouldn’t be able to leave it alone any more than he would, in their place, even if they thought he’d gone nuts. They would be duty-bound to investigate. And if they suspected he’d been compromised, he could imagine Wanda trying to pull the information out of him against his will, if they felt it necessary, for the greater good. 

He’d been planning on sharing some of these thoughts with Bucky and Darcy, but they’d been acting oddly all morning. They were quieter than usual, not engaging in their typical banter as they’d all sat around waiting to be summoned again. In fact they’d been almost silent, just sitting quietly next to each other on the couch, Darcy’s head on his shoulder, Bucky frequently picking up her hand, pulling it over to his knee to rest it there, his own big hand covering it, stroking the side of it idly with his thumb as they seemed to almost doze. 

Steve supposed they were still feeling the emotional after-effects of the alien bonding ceremony, and he let them be, opting not to trouble them for now with his own whirlpool of questions and worries. 

It’d been almost a relief when the insistent raps on the door had come, heralding the arrival of their usual triple-guard escort, to take them back to the Hall of Rectitude for the mid-day hearing. As before, Loki had been taken there separately, and the three humans once again followed the guards through the city, though this time with far less horseplay and nervous joking around from Bucky and Darcy. 

They actually seemed… subdued. Serious. Not quite what Steve had expected of them, after what had turned into, he was assuming, an eight-hour-long sex-a-thon. Maybe they were just completely wiped out. Well, at least he could speak with conviction when he was asked whether the deed had been “accomplished.” 

And now it seemed that time was finally at hand: the judge, dressed in the same sparkly robe as before, finished whatever he was reading and then looked up at the three of them, standing all in a row, just as they had the previous day. Loki was once more off to their right, the father and daughter to the left. The daughter was again kneeling on the low bench in front of her father, her eyes angled down in submission. As in the first part of the previous hearing, the spectator seating was packed with curious alien attendees. 

“The female’s kinsman will step forward and speak,” said the judge, and Steve complied, taking one large step forward, clasping his hands in front of him, trying to assume a formality in his stance. 

“Is it completed?” asked the judge. “Are you satisfied, according to your own standards and rituals, that the joining of your… companions has been accomplished and that the bonding has been fully achieved?” 

“Uh, yeah,” said Steve, and then cleared his throat and tried to answer with a bit more authority, even though the whole situation was ridiculous— having to stand up in a court of law and answer the question, formally, legally: ‘ _So did they do it?_ ’ 

“Yes,” he said, more firmly. And then added, “I’m satisfied,” hoping that would be enough to settle the matter, and that they could move on. 

“Her mate had no complaints?” pressed the judge. “No grievance to raise?” 

“No,” said Steve. “He, uh… it’s all fine. They’re fine.” 

“I am pleased to hear it,” said the judge, and he nodded, pursing his lips, and then looked down to some papers on the desk in front of him and made some sort of notation on one of them. “You may step back,” he added, without looking up, as he flipped a page up, made another notation near the bottom of that one, and then passed the stack to the panelist on his right, who opened a little wooden box, took out a cylindrical object about the size of rifle shell, and used it to apply some sort of stamp or seal to the cover page of the documents. 

“It shall be filed and retained in our records for the minimum period required,” said the judge, and then he turned his attention to the father, who was standing by with a pretense of serenity, though his face was more haughty than reposed. 

“Am’a Eechor,” he said. “You may now come forward and hear the Asgardian’s petition— speaking now as one who is free of any and all liaisons.” 

Steve looked down, trying not to make any outward response to that ludicrous statement. He seriously doubted that Loki could be truly characterized as ‘ _free of liaisons_ ’, in the eyes of this planet’s legal system. Apparently they assumed his tryst with Darcy— a forced encounter— was his only indiscretion outside the boundaries of a legal joining. 

Now that Steve had the context of the book that Loki had been reading the night before— a glimpse of these beings’ laughably flawed understanding of Asgardian history and culture— their attitudes made more sense. He could see how their many misconceptions, along with the arrogance typical of conservative societies— the belief that their limited knowledge and assumptions were entirely accurate— and the tendency to view everything through the bias their own cultural lens, had led them to a gross misunderstanding of Loki’s behavior, while also completely underestimating him. Which was not necessarily a bad thing. 

The father had stepped forward and turned to face Loki, who was clean and fresh and perfectly packaged back into his respectable-looking ‘Tolkir’ disguise, but the father nevertheless regarded him with a look that befit someone who’d just stepped in a pile of warm dog shit. 

“Speak, then,” said the judge, nodding to Loki. “Make your formal petition.” 

“Eh…” said Loki, looking uncomfortable as his eyes flicked to the father, and then quickly away, settling instead on some point beyond the alien’s shoulder. “I would… _humbly_ request… that is to say, by your leave…” He glanced to the judge, as though seeking help with what kind of words were expected, but the judge just stared back, stone-faced. 

Loki let out a tired breath and almost rolled his eyes— the entire process was unnecessarily tedious— but reminded himself, once again, what was at stake. He’d been living in an altered state for over ten days now, and while he’d come to realize that it would be _possible_ to eventually… _adapt_ to life without all of his parts— if absolutely necessary— it was by no means the future he wished to inhabit. The baser part of him wished he could have simply bypassed all of this— taken on his true form, terrified the answers out of them, taken what was his, and been gone. Had he realized sooner how little they actually knew of Asgard or its neighboring realms, he would have considered risking it. 

“If you would do me the honor,” he began again, forcing out the words, “of granting your permission to… request a supervised audience with your daughter, I should be… forever in your thrall.” 

The judge nodded, apparently satisfied, and then raised his brow as he looked to the father, obviously awaiting his response. 

The father had a constipated look on his face, but he finally took a breath and responded, his words slow, careful, and loud enough for the entire room to hear. 

“I have heard your words, _Asgardian_ ,” he began, saying the word with open contempt. “And while I… recognize the… _honor_ you do me in making such a request so… _humbly_ …” The alien paused then, the sarcastic part of his speech concluded, and forged on with more sincerity. “I must nevertheless refuse your request, as you are understandably unsuitable—” He raised his voice then: “ _Entirely_ and _obviously_ unsuitable— to seek the company of _any_ of our people, much less one of our females, and certainly not one of _my_ issue.” 

The judge looked about to speak, but the father pressed on, having more to say. 

“And I must,” he said, raising his voice even more, to retain his command of the floor, “at this time, formally declare, for the record, that were it _my_ judgment to make, I should not only refuse to grant my permission, but would also refuse to restore you to your natural and correct state.” 

He held up his hand to prevent interruption as he continued to speak, never taking his eyes off of Loki. “And, further, I would have all the bones of your body crushed one by one, your eyeballs plucked out by the beaks of our largest birds, your body dragged through the square in full view of a crowd of spectators, flayed in the market alongside the beasts until such time that your skin should slide off, your entrails torn out and fed to the vermin of the sewers, your head removed most savagely and hung upon the city walls to rot, and then— only then— the putrid remainders of your carcass tossed beyond the barrier to be incinerated by the stars, so that your particles may be returned to the meaningless dreck from whence they sprung.” 

He stepped back then, politely, a peaceful look on his face, and once again took up his place behind his kneeling daughter. 

Darcy, Bucky, and Steve had all stood quietly listening to the alien’s speech, and now they all turned as one to look at ‘Tolkir’, who had remained motionless throughout the obnoxious oration. 

His face had shown boredom, if anything, during the speech, and now he broke, quite suddenly, into a toothy smile that thinned his lips and crinkled the corners of his eyes. There was real humor in his expression, and yet he somehow managed to look more terrifying— more dangerous— than he had at any other point over the past three days, even as he stood there placidly, neither speaking nor moving. It was the first time Darcy had any personal sense of his possibly being a bit… frightening. 

“Well,” said the judge simply, almost cheerfully, completely ignoring both the invective of the father and the creepy response by Loki, “everything seems to be in order, then. Am’a Eechor— I would ask that you now restore the Asgardian’s… _parts_ to him, so we may conclude this matter and bid farewell to our… guests.” 

“If it please your honor,” began the father, but the judge interrupted. 

“We have heard you,” he said, his hand raised, to prevent further argument, “and we sympathize, but we would seek to _curb_ the inclination to further drama in this affair, rather than foment it.” The judge’s voice now took on a stern tone— a warning in it. “There shall be no further discussion on this. I have other business to attend to, and should like to conclude this before the suns reach the third angle. Proceed.” 

The father let out a final, histrionic sigh, as much for the benefit of the audience as himself, and then muttered, “I have heard you, Magistrate.” 

He shut his eyes, curled the fingers of his hands and then linked the fingertips of each curve together so that his hands were making an 'S' shape, high up in front of his chest, his elbows sticking out on either side of his body. He took a deep breath, and everyone waited, watching him. There was an odd shimmer around him for a moment, almost like a heat mirage, and then Loki took a sharp breath, as though he’d had the wind knocked out of him. He stepped back with one foot as though to steady himself, and then shut his own eyes and breathed carefully for few seconds. 

The father put down his hands and relaxed his arms by his sides. “I have done as you asked,” he grumbled. 

“And you, Asgardian?” asked the judge. “Are you satisfied?” 

“Yes,” said Loki, the word like a hiss as he let out a breath and opened his eyes. With his peripheral vision, he saw Darcy raise her eyebrows at him in question, and he nodded slightly, and then fought a smile when she gave him a cute little smirk and a double thumbs-up, her hands held discreetly in front of her chest. 

“Well then,” said the judge. “If both parties are indeed… _satisfied_ —” He gave the father a pointed look as he said it, as though to preempt any further quibbling, “we may consider this matter settled.” He added, almost under his breath, “Thank the Maker.” He raised his hand to make his formal sign— his fingers in a V, circled once— and then signed some more papers and passed them down to the right, to get stamped by the clerk. 

“So is that it?” murmured Steve hopefully. “Can we go now?” He hadn’t been addressing the judge directly, but the alien heard his question anyway. 

“Yes, Outsider. You may go,” he said. “As may the Asgardian. Our guards shall escort the two of you beyond the city limits.” 

“Wait, what?” said Steve, glancing to Bucky and Darcy— both of them had visibly tensed at the judge’s words. 

“What about us,” said Bucky, warily. 

“Yes,” said the judge. “About that. There has been much discussion… beyond the walls of this chamber… much _interest_ in the unusual ways of your… kind. As much as we are obviously disgusted by your primitive culture, we were most impressed by your attempt to behave in a civilized manner. We should like to invite you to remain, so that we may study you further.” 

“What do you mean, ‘ _study_ ’,” asked Steve, as his eyes flicked nervously to Bucky, who was subtly angling Darcy slightly behind him on his right. 

“His mate would, of course, remain behind as well, to keep him satisfied,” said one of the other panelists, ignoring Steve’s question. They didn’t seem to understand what the problem was— either that, or they were gambling, playing at innocence. 

Bucky exchanged a glance with Loki and stepped forward. “I’m uh… honored that you’d want us to stay as your… guests, but I’m afraid that won’t be possible. We’ve got important work we need to return to, back home. I’m sure you understand.” 

The judge stared at him, unspeaking, for a moment. “That is unfortunate,” he finally said. “The measure has already been passed, approving the mandate for the study. All the arrangements have been made. I’m afraid we must… insist.” 

“You sayin’ you’re gonna keep us here against our will?” asked Bucky, and Loki noticed the man’s prosthetic hand was clenching and unclenching where it dangled by his side. This was bad. Very, very bad. Loki focused his mind, already beginning to prepare a number of different spells, and only hoped that Darcy’s man would keep his cool long enough for him to throw up a shield and open the portal… 

“If you gotta keep someone,” said Steve, stepping forward. He breathed out. “Keep me, if you gotta.” 

“Shut up, Steve,” said Bucky, his voice dangerous, just as Darcy said, “Steve, no—” 

“We do not want you,” said another panelist, cutting them off. It was the one with the weak chin. “We want the dark-haired one. And his arm. And his mate.” 

“They will be well cared-for, I assure you,” said the judge. “You need not concern yourself with their future.” Again, he seemed confused that they were so antagonized by the situation, but at the same time, he’d clearly been prepared to keep them there by force, if necessary. He made some sort of signal to the guards who were standing by. One group of three approached Steve, another group made ready behind Bucky and Darcy, and a third moved up to stand behind Loki. 

“Take the fair one, and the Asgardian, to the place where they arrived,” said the judge. He then spoke directly to Steve. “I must warn you: if you return to the city, or attempt to reclaim your compatriots, there will be… consequences.” 

“Don’t do this,” said Steve, jerking his body away as one of the guards made to grab his arm. He glanced at Bucky, who was staring straight ahead, breathing heavily, winding up for a fight, and then to Loki, whom he was unable to read— he was standing perfectly still, his face like a wall, refusing to meet any of their eyes. He seemed to be moving his lips, silently, as two guards moved up to grasp his arms, one on each side. 

“You will leave immediately,” said the judge, his voice laced with a degree of threat now. “Before we change our minds and dispose of you. You can be sure it would trouble us not at all to do so.” To the guards, he said, “If they make any attempt to resist, cast them beyond the barrier.” 

The father was openly smirking now, probably _hoping_ for a fight— and for the threatened unsavory outcome. 

The group of guards behind Darcy and Bucky moved up, ready to restrain them if they interfered, and Bucky pulled Darcy back around so that she was in front of him, away from their hands, and growled, “If anyone lays a hand on her, there’s gonna be hell to pay.” 

“Do not give us reason to,” one of the guards returned, just as dangerously. “We have no wish to violate the dominion of your bond.” 

Loki still wasn’t looking at anyone, but his words suddenly broke through the air: clear and commanding and with the force of deadly resolve. “I _**will not**_ leave without the release of _**all**_ of my companions,” he said, projecting his voice so that it could be heard throughout the hall. “If you allow them to go in peace— _**now**_ — I shall consider forgiving these threats, and no harm shall come to you.” 

The father actually snickered at that— it was the first time he’d shown any sign of emotion other than a kind of privileged, butt-headed condescension. “Fool,” he said derisively, completely undaunted by Loki’s little speech. “You _dare_ to threaten _us_? You ridiculous worm… you do not understand the power you are up against, the—” 

The judge held up his hand again, silencing him. “I must warn you,” he said solemnly now, looking at Loki. “We have made our decision, and it shall be so. There can be no alteration. The dark-haired one _will_ stay. You will leave now— by force, if necessary.” He made a signal to the guards, who again attempted to secure them, and to steer them away from one another. 

Loki looked to Darcy, and the anger ripped through him like a jagged blade when he saw that the girl was actually crying now, and it looked so wrong on her— she was saucy and tough, snarky and confident. But now she’d crumbled, convinced that her fate was sealed, that she and her man were doomed to some hellish existence on this planet— that he would truly leave her at the mercy of these fiends… 

He would make them pay for this, if he could, make them suffer for this cruelty to her, that she’d had to feel that fear for even a second— and he spoke to her with a confidence born in raw fury, even as his breath picked up, preparing for battle: 

“Darcy,” he said, his voice low and loud and commanding. “ _ **Look at me**_.” He repeated it, even as the guards gripped his arms from behind, beginning to pull him backward, and he resisted, ripping his arms away, even as they were grasped again immediately, and he was keeping his eyes steady on her face until she met his gaze, looking utterly lost— distraught— but she focused on him finally, and listened. 

“I will _**not**_ allow them take you,” he said, his words a pledge, making her believe it. “Or Barnes.” He looked fiercely to Bucky, and then to Steve, willing them to hear him as well. “I shan’t leave any of you behind. _**You have my word**_.” 

The father chuckled again— almost a giggle— and Loki flashed him another one of those special smiles, the ones that spoke of a capacity for vengeance that would make most mortals tremble… 

Steve was also being yanked backward by guards now, and he nodded to Loki, conveying his belief in the words— his faith in him, his trust— and Loki exulted in it for a moment, and it bolstered his strength and resolve that much more. 

Steve and Bucky exchanged a glance then— a silent question-and-answer, each of them sussing out the situation, analyzing the threats, both known and unknown, and there were still far too many of the latter to act— not unless it came to a point where it was truly ‘do or die’, and Steve stopped struggling against the guards holding him. Bucky hadn’t yet been taken in hand, having apparently satisfied their trust that he’d behave himself, if they left his mate alone. 

The daughter, still kneeling, had broken her sightless forward stare and was glancing around nervously, as if sensing things were about to get very ugly, wanting to distance herself from the action… but her father yet stood solidly behind her, unafraid, amused by the spectacle before him. He was enjoying it. 

“ _ **Last chance**_ ,” said Loki, grinning, and the judge just slumped his shoulders, clearly not frightened any more than the father was— rather, he seemed annoyed… wearied by this additional nonsense that was delaying his schedule. 

“Guards,” said the judge, in a tired voice. “Do your duty. Take our guests to their new quarters.” And just as the guards behind Bucky and Darcy began to step forward again, Loki’s hands shot out, and a golden glow of his magic erupted in a translucently golden cylinder-like shape around the center of the room. It neatly sealed off himself and the guards who still grappled to restrain him, all of the humans, the guards who were still holding Steve, and the father and daughter. 

The panelists and the remaining guards and all of the spectators were on the outside of the cylinder, and as soon as he’d done it— the moment he’d revealed his capability for advanced spellwork— the entire room erupted into pandemonium. 

The panelists jumped to their feet, and the judge growled, “ _What is this_? You _dare_ use your sorcery inside the Hall of Rectitude? Cease this at _once_ , Asgardian _witch_.” He was fuming, stuttering, almost spitting. “You have hidden your true abilities from us, and for that— for that I _promise_ — you shall pay dearly…” 

To the guards who remained on the outside of the shield, and who were just standing there, shocked to inaction, he shouted, “ _Fools!_ Don’t just stand there; _do_ something! Break through!” 

Loki didn’t know how long he could keep them shielded, but he had no intention of letting his companions come to harm, and he was already readying the portal for their escape. It was more complicated than the travel spell he’d used before, when they’d simply placed their hands into his light, but it was his only option in the dynamic situation. It would be far more taxing— dangerously draining— and he had to time it just right, to ensure he would not fail. Without a doubt, it was going to be close. 

Half a dozen guards had rushed to attack the shield at the judge’s command, but as they attempted to penetrate it, they found it to be a solid barrier, impervious to both their bodies and their weapons, and they fell back, looking to see if there was another way around it, perhaps above it, but it seemed to vanish into the ceiling— for all they knew, penetrating it and continuing up into the sky… 

The daughter had finally scrambled off the kneeler to a more defensive position on the floor, openly ignoring her father’s commands to stay behind him, and was now gaping at Loki with unfettered awe. 

“You will regret this,” said the father, as he sneered at Loki, and though he was finally showing just a few twitches of anxiety, a part of him seemed almost pleased. “There will be no mercy for you now.” 

Loki muttered another set of incantations, never taking his eyes off the father, and then, with a clenching of his teeth and a violent thrust of both hands, which he’d again ripped from the grip of the guards behind him, he opened an eight-foot-wide portal next to Bucky and Darcy, within the shelter of the dome. It crackled and hissed— a sign of its fundamental instability— and the golden edges licked at the air like raw, arcing electricity. “ _Get in_ ,” he shouted to them. “ _Quickly!_ ” 

Bucky was about to push Darcy through, but she darted away and said, “ _No!_ Not without Steve!” 

“Do not _argue_ with me,” said Loki, as he struggled to maintain his focus on the two spells. “Were you not listening before? I have sworn not to leave any of you behind, and I mean to keep my word.” 

When Darcy continued to shake her head, backing away from the portal, Loki lost all patience, already feeling the drain on his _seiðr_ , and he practically snarled out the words: “ _Gods_ , woman, what more need I say? _**Get. In. The. Portal.**_ ” 

“I can’t,” she said. “I won’t. I won’t leave Steve behind.” 

He appealed to her man then. “Barnes,” he said. “ _Please_. Take her through. Let me handle this.” 

Bucky glanced at Steve again, asking— do they do it now? Go all in? 

It was hard to judge the strength of the guards… he and Steve could probably take one of them down together, but there were two on Steve and two on Loki, and Loki was completely occupied with maintaining the spells, even as he resisted the guards’ tugging on him, and there was still the unknown of the father— another magic-user, who was looking with open curiosity at the crackling, golden edges of the portal, reaching his hand out to it, almost touching it. He seemed entirely unconcerned with any of them as a potential danger, and that in itself suggested a level of threat they couldn’t ignore. 

Steve shook his head once, just slightly. Too risky. “Go through,” he said to Bucky, willing him to do it, wanting him to. “Take her through. I’ll follow when I can.” 

Bucky held his eyes for a second, and then he reached his hand out for Darcy, and she took it, and he pulled her back into his body, and said, “We’re not movin’ ’til they let Steve go.” 

Loki could have strangled them both. 

“Your puny Asgardian spells are no match for our advanced workings,” said the father suddenly, as he looked away from Loki’s portal. His face took on a look of resolve, and he did his hand thing again— the curled fingers linked into an “S” shape— and the heat mirage effect began to shimmer over him again… 

Loki swore violently, quickly cast an extra shield around his own body, buying himself just a little more time to protect the spells already in play, and he swayed a little from the additional strain. It was all going to hell— he was going to lose control of the situation, and they would likely all be killed, or, worse, doomed to live out their lives on this planet. 

He hesitated for only a second further, making his decision with a final, vehement curse. He shut his eyes, concentrating as he spoke, the words a dangerous growl. 

“Your words are true,” he said to the father, “and would trouble me greatly, were I limited to, as you say, my ‘ _puny_ ’ Asgardian spells.” 

Something strange was happening. The temperature in the room was dropping rapidly, and the aliens began to look around, confused, as the ceiling above, the walls all around, and the floor beneath them began to creep over with a thick layer of icy-blue crystal, and there was a trembling all around, as though an earthquake were beginning to rumble through the room. 

“It is true that I told you my birthplace was Asgard,” continued Loki, his voice full of quiet menace. There was a dramatic pause. 

“I lied.” 

There was a terrific clap of thunder as the tremors intensified, punctuating his statement, and the walls began to rip through with fissures, the entire room now shaking, the temperature still plummeting. 

The panelists were gasping now, showing fear rather than anger for the first time, while the spectators panicked, trying to evacuate through the main doors, scrambling and trampling one another in their rush to get away. The breath of their frantic exhales were becoming visible clouds of condensed vapor in the icy air. 

“Oh my God,” said Darcy, who was shivering in Bucky’s arms, and when he followed her gaze, he was shocked to see that Loki was turning _blue_. 

Loki saw the shock on her face— read it as horror, maybe even disgust— and he growled it out now— “ _Into the portal_.” There was something rough— almost vicious now— in his usually elegant speech, and he hated it, hated facing the reality of his true self, this base creature he’d been forced to become. 

“ _ **Now**_.” 

The father had dropped his hands and stumbled back, clearly frightened. “He’s a Jötunn,” he whispered. “But how— he can’t be— he’s far too small to—” 

“You see what you force me to do,” said Loki, trying to control himself, speaking more carefully even as he was being overwhelmed by sensation, the intense surge of power granted to him by his native form, at once deliriant and excruciating. 

As the transformation fully took him, Darcy could see that the sclera of his eyes were now blood-red, and that some of his teeth looked sharper— almost like fangs. His skin was a beautiful azure blue and banded with patterns of raised ridges, like a tribal scarification. He was holding both his hands out, channeling waves of energy as he strained to maintain focus on both the Aesir and Jötunn workings in play. He was both terrifying and glorious, and it was clear to all yet watching that he now controlled the room. The guards who’d been tasked with holding him had recoiled in fear as he’d changed form, and were now scrambling to put distance between them. 

In spite of this display of raw strength, Loki’s repeated imploring that they get into the portal was beginning to sound more desperate than insistent— he was practically pleading with them, even as the aliens around him quaked in fear of his revealed power, ignorant to the strain he was under, how close to failing he was. 

Even Barnes was backing away from him— he and Darcy clearly as shocked by the revelation as any of the aliens, and he cursed again, because it was all going wrong, and there was no _time_ for this; no time to argue or explain. 

Bucky’s arm wrapped around her protectively as he stepped back, nearing the edge of the shield where Steve was still being held by the only remaining guards who were still foolishly trying to do their duty— perhaps only because they weren’t in a position to flee like the others. 

Loki clenched his teeth and swore again and then raised his voice to an angry roar. “Release my companion _**at once**_ ,” he shouted to them, “or there will be consequences for _**you**_ , personally. You have three seconds. _**One**_.” 

The frightened guards looked to the panelists for guidance, as Steve began to struggle anew under their grip, sensing the tide was turning. 

“ _Do something!_ ” bellowed the judge, his order clearly directed toward the father, but the once-haughty alien only shook his head, still backing away in fear. 

The ice on all the surfaces of the room was starting to thicken, to crumble under its own weight, and dangerously large chunks and jagged shards of it were beginning to fall from the ceiling with thundering impacts, and then the grey brickwork itself began to crack and come apart from the pressure as well. 

“ _ **Two**_.” 

Everyone outside of the shield was still scrambling for the exits— even the panelists were evacuating now— as the rumbling got louder, the pressure increasing, and it was starting to _hurt_ , like a pulse of energy pressing inward upon them from all sides, and Darcy put her hands over her ears, and a line of blood ran out of one of her nostrils, and Bucky pulled her more tightly into his arms, trying to shelter her from the falling debris, and he was thinking, _okay, maybe we die here. At least we’re all together. Me and Darcy and Stevie. What a fucking trip it’s all been_. 

“ _ **Three**_.” 

The father almost got crushed by a piece of ceiling that had broken loose under the weight of the ice, the enormous chunk slamming into the floor with a resounding _boom_ , and as he stumbled to the side to avoid it, he tried to grab his daughter’s arm, but she ripped away from him, scrambling on her hands and knees in the opposite direction, cradling her head in an attempt to protect herself. 

The guards finally released Steve, cowering away from whatever punishment they imagined might still befall them, and Steve lunged forward, yelling, “I’m out! _Go_ , Buck, get her _outa_ here! I’m right behind you!” 

Loki was holding the portal open with great difficulty now, unable to add his own voice to the entreaty as the room continued to collapse around them. 

Bucky scooped Darcy into his arms and stepped through the portal, vanishing completely as soon as he crossed through the plane of it, and Steve was right on his heels, but he stopped at its edge, hesitating, and said, “What about you,” to Loki, and he instinctively grabbed at the man’s exposed wrist, hissing when the icy blue skin instantly seared a vicious burn into flesh of his palm. 

“ _ **Fool!**_ ” said Loki, as Steve staggered a little, stared at his hand, startled by the wound— his flesh was blackened, sizzling. 

“I shall follow once you are through. Go— go _**now!**_ ” And gods, but these humans were _persistent_ , but the man finally complied, his good hand clutching the wrist of the burned one, and he stepped into the portal, and Loki almost collapsed as he released a shuddering exhale of relief. 

He’d intended to drop his Jötunn form before joining them on the other side, horrified that he’d had to display it to them at all, but not regretting in the slightest the fear and destruction he’d rained down on these vile, contemptible creatures by revealing his true form to them, with all its destructive power, and he was just beginning to mumble the necessary words in his mind to release the tenuous hold he had on it, when a tremendous wave of dizziness tore through him— a violent swell of pain and nausea— and he almost succumbed to it. 

He realized with a sting of fear that he was seconds from passing out entirely, which, if he should, would leave him to the mercy of these beings, and forever strand the humans on the other side— helpless, on a realm completely unknown and hostile to them, with no way to ever return to their own world… 

He was fighting it, struggling to keep the portal open long enough to make his own way through without dropping the shield, and he was failing, falling, his eyes drooping shut as his energy flagged entirely, his _seiðr_ all but depleted from the overwhelming strain, and he mustn’t… he _mustn’t_ … 

The daughter had watched it all, almost entranced, and now she gasped as the extraordinary blue sorcerer— the only being to have ever visibly struck fear into her father— teetered, almost falling, his eyelids fluttering, and before she could fully examine what she was doing or why, she was winding the long ends of her robe around her hands to protect them, and then she was leaping forward with all her might, out of the grasp of her father, out of the grasp of this rigid, wretched world, and she grabbed onto the blue man’s body as he fell, pulling them both together through the portal he’d created, and they made it through to the other side with a mere quarter-second to spare before it shuddered, contracting, and with a final shimmer and a burst of bright light, collapsed completely.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one chapter to go after this! It's already written and I will probably post it in a day or two. Thanks to each and every reader, commenter, bookmarker, leaver of kudos, and lurker out there. You're all wonderful. Thanks also to my most patient friend Chocogypto for reading everything I send your way, finding my boo-boos, and for putting up with my tantrums and low self-esteem <3  
> \-------

“Is everyone okay?” 

Steve pushed the words out as he came to, struggling to stand. The punishing jump from the alien world back to the woods of Vanaheim— this time via portal— had been almost as brutal as the original trip, and Steve stumbled as he blinked and turned around in the glade, looking for Bucky, remembering how his friend had been triggered into a confused, dissociative state the first time around. 

He located him quickly— he was sitting in a carpet of dead leaves at the base an enormous tree, Darcy lying in his lap. There were streaks of dried blood on her face, under her nose. 

“Buck, you all right?” he said as he staggered over to them, trying to find his footing. “How’s Darcy— she okay?” 

“Don’t know,” said Bucky, and Steve could feel the anxiety rolling off him, even as he pretended to a kind of calm. “She’s breathin’, at least. Tryin’ to see if I can wake her up. What happened to your hand?” 

Steve had crouched down beside them, looking at Darcy in concern, and now he glanced at his right hand— it was still blackened all across the palm, where he’d grasped the flesh of Loki’s wrist. 

“Frostbite, best I can tell,” he said. It hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, but he figured it’d heal up all right— the process already beginning, judging by how painful it was. “Where is he? Where’s Loki?” 

Bucky nodded in the opposite direction, behind Steve. “Over there, in the trees. And he ain’t alone.” 

“What?” Steve spun around to see, and there on the forest floor, about thirty feet away, lay Loki, stripped of both his Frost-Giant form and his ‘Tolkir’ disguise, and indeed, all of his clothing, so that his default Aesir form was completely exposed. It was hard for Steve to remember that this, too, was merely a disguise— a spell that his adoptive father had placed on him; so potent and convincing that Loki himself hadn’t known it was a lie until an accident had revealed the truth to him. 

He was stretched out on the leaves, unconscious, and next to him, the alien daughter sat— kneeling, impassive, her eerie pink-colored eyes staring downward at nothing. Her robes were draped tidily around her body, her head like the apex of a shimmering pyramid of fabric. 

“What the— what’s _she_ doin’ here?” Steve hissed. “Fuck, is he dead?” 

“Don’t know,” said Bucky, in a low voice. “They came through together, few seconds after you. She was hangin’ onto him when they came through, like he’d already passed out, on the other side. Pretty sure she saved his life, and by association, all of ours. I mean, if he ain’t dead.” 

“Yeah,” said Steve, and then, “Shit. This ain’t good. What’re we supposed to do with her?” 

Bucky was about to speak, when Darcy stirred in his lap, her eyes fluttering open. “Bucky?” Her voice was weak—just a whisper. 

“Right here, sweetheart,” he said, his heart pounding in its relief to hear her voice. He couldn’t help smiling as he looked down at her, his flesh hand cupping her cheek. “You all right? You hurting anywhere?” 

“Headache,” she mumbled. “Bad one. God, I hope I didn’t get brain damage. Did we make it? Is everyone here?” 

“Yeah,” he said. “Everyone, plus a stowaway.” 

“Huh?” she said, trying to sit up in his lap. “Ow! God. Fuck. I need some space-Tylenol or something.” 

Steve was creeping slowly over to where the alien woman was sitting like a statue of the Buddha next to Loki’s outstretched body. She seemed to be watching them, listening to all of it, but had made no attempt to move or communicate herself. 

“You all right?” said Steve, as he approached her cautiously, and then he said, “My name’s Steve. Steve Rogers. What’s yours?” His eyes flicked to Loki, wanting to assess the man’s condition. 

The alien woman looked up at him, blinking, and her smooth brow furrowed a bit. She said something back to him, but the words were unintelligible, the sounds completely foreign. 

“I don’t understand,” said Steve. 

“The spell,” said Darcy, from where she was still resting in Bucky’s arms, behind him. “Lo— I mean, _Tolkir’s_ language spell… it must’ve worn off, along with the others… or maybe it goes away if he’s not… awake. Holy crap, is he… naked?” 

Steve crouched down next to Loki, moving slowly, not wanting to spook the woman. He was all pale skin, and long, loose, raven hair; his complexion was sallow, and he seemed to be breathing shallowly. Steve instinctively removed his button-down shirt and draped it over the man, trying to give him some measure of privacy, and then touched his forehead, cautiously. It was cool to the touch, but no longer icy. 

“He doesn’t look so good,” he said. “Think he hurt himself, with that stunt he pulled back in the courtroom.” 

“You mean the part where he saved all our lives?” said Darcy. “Fuck. I shouldn’t have been so stubborn about getting in the goddamned portal…” 

“Well, all’s well that end’s well,” said Steve, “I hope.” He pressed his fingers to Loki’s neck, trying to take his pulse. The alien woman was watching him closely, and she said something else in her foreign tongue. 

“I’m sorry,” said Steve. “I can’t understand your language.” 

She turned her body slightly, so that she was facing them, and then moved her hand cautiously over to Loki’s forehead, letting it hover there for a moment, a few inches away, and then she looked at Steve, almost like she was asking permission. 

“There something you can do for him?” asked Steve, trying to use his face and his hands to communicate the question. He shuffled back a bit on his knees, crinkling the dead leaves, and he held out his hand, as though to say, “Go ahead.” 

“You sure that’s a good idea?” asked Bucky. “You saw what her dad could do. Maybe she’s got some magic, too. If she kills him, we’re screwed.” 

“I don’t think she’s gonna hurt him,” said Steve, shaking his head, even as he kept his eyes on her. “Seems like she risked her life, to bring him through. To save him. Don’t know why, yet, but—” 

“Shit, if I were a woman on that planet, I’d be diving through the first available portal that came my way, even if it went straight to hell,” said Darcy, and then, “Ow— _God_ … my head…” 

The woman had carefully placed her hand on Loki’s forehead, and then she shut her eyes, and seemed to be concentrating for a minute. Suddenly Loki’s eyes popped open, and he jerked his head up with a sharp intake of breath, and he looked around wildly as he struggled to sit up. 

“Hey, hey— easy there,” said Steve, putting his hand out to calm him. “You’re all right. You’re safe.” 

The alien woman had moved her hand back into her lap, and she said something, still in the foreign language, and when Loki looked to her— confused, startled to see her there— he sat up fully and then stood up, stumbling backward a little, flinging away Steve’s shirt. “What— I don’t—” They all felt a little shimmer pass through them, like some involuntary wave of his spellwork had released out of him upon his awakening. 

And then all at once he seemed to realize that he was no longer in any type of disguise, and he swore, and appeared to attempt one of his workings, perhaps to pull his Tolkir appearance back on, but nothing happened, and he swore again and spun around, and stumbled off into the wood, almost falling over, steadying himself against tree trunks in a zig-zag through the forest as he fought to get away. 

“Hey, hold up,” called Steve, but there was no reply, and he was moving to follow, when he heard the voice of the alien woman again, only now she was speaking in words he could understand. 

“Who is he?” she asked, and Steve was so startled to hear the words— the first intelligible words she’d spoken since they’d first seen her, back on her planet— that he turned back around, forgetting Loki momentarily. 

“Who is he _really?_ ” she clarified. “Are these all… masks that he wears? Which of his forms is his true aspect? The blue one, is it not?” And then she averted her eyes and bowed her head, misunderstanding Steve’s reaction. “Forgive me for speaking so bluntly, and without permission.” 

“No,” he said. “No, I’m just… I’m glad we can understand each other now.” He glanced over to his friends— Darcy was trying to sit up more, supporting herself by leaning against Bucky’s chest. She was watching the alien woman intently. 

“I, uh… I don’t know if even _he_ knows the answer to that question,” Steve said finally, and then he changed the subject. “What’d you do to him? When you put your hand on him…” 

“It is my gift,” she said. “I apologize for displaying it openly, but I could sense your concern for his condition. I assessed his injuries and roused him so that you might be reassured.” 

“So you— you’re some kinda healer?” 

“I am not allowed to use it,” she said. “Females are… we are not permitted to use our gifts publicly. Only when decreed, and then only under supervision…” 

“You think you could fix this?” he asked, holding out his hand. “It’ll heal up on its own, in time, but it’s hurtin’ me enough to be distracting…” 

She looked at him doubtfully. “You would not be… offended?” 

“Why would I be? You’d be doin’ me a favor.” 

She just looked at him, unblinking for a moment, and finally he added, “We, uh… my people play by a different set of rules. If you could help us out, maybe check Darcy over there too, I’d sure appreciate it.” 

She moved her eyes to Darcy. “You are injured?” she asked. 

“I don’t know,” she said. “My head hurts. I think Lo— uh… Tolkir’s spells kind of squished my brain a little.” 

“I know it is… improper,” said the woman, looking at Steve, “but if you would give me your hand, I will repair you, and then I will assess your companion. The touch of my hand— I assure you, it would be purely… clinical.” 

He crouched down again, in front of her, and offered his burned hand to her. She hesitated, making eye contact with him again as though to be sure she truly had his permission, or maybe to reassure herself that it was not some kind of trap. 

When he nodded his encouragement, moving his injured hand a little closer, she finally reached out and took hold of it in both of hers, committing to it, and closed her eyes. Steve felt a light warmth pass through his skin, and then a moment later, the pain was gone. She quickly let go, and he looked at his hand in wonder— the skin was slightly reddened, but otherwise it was completely restored. 

“Thank you,” he breathed, turning his hand over to examine it on both sides, flexing his fingers to test it. “That’s— wow.” 

She almost smiled, and then she caught herself and simply bowed her head in acknowledgement. “I will now see to your companion.” 

She pushed herself up, her robes falling to drape around her entire body as she stood, and almost seemed to glide her way over to where Darcy lay, propped up in Bucky’s arms. She kneeled down carefully next to them, again seemed to ask permission with her eyes, and, after Darcy nodded to her, gently placed her hand against Darcy’s forehead, and closed her eyes. 

“There are… some micro-fissures in some of the vessels,” she said, opening her eyes again. “The conduits that carry your lifeblood.” 

“Can you repair it?” asked Bucky, trying to clamp down on his fear at her words. “Can you heal her?” 

“I believe so,” she said. “She is not in any immediate danger, but… she is fragile. Not meant for such exposures… the intensity of the blue one. I believe the strain of the travel exacerbated the damage done by the Asgardian’s…” She stopped to correct herself. “But then, he is not truly Asgardian, is he.” She shook her head. “We know so little of the outside world…” 

They didn’t respond to her musings, and she continued on, saying, “Were I not to repair the damage, I believe further travel in this manner could harm her irreparably.” 

“Is it just my head, or—” When the woman made no reply, Darcy moved the woman’s hand from her forehead and placed it over her belly, which caused Steve to furrow his brow. 

“Your inner workings are somewhat different from ours, but… I sense no damage here,” said the woman, after a moment of concentration. “It all seems to be functioning properly. But I should repair the damage in your head.” 

“Yeah, okay,” said Darcy. “I mean, thanks. Thank you.” 

“The honor is mine,” said the woman, and she moved her hand back to Darcy’s forehead and shut her eyes once again. She stayed there longer than she had when she’d been healing Steve, but after about thirty seconds she removed her hand and bowed her head, and Darcy let out a sigh, smiling a little. 

“It is done,” said the woman, acknowledging Darcy’s obvious relief. 

“Wow,” said Darcy. “That felt awesome. Like… God, I can’t even describe it. Like getting a hug, on the inside.” 

Steve had come back over to them, and now he crouched down, reached out and squeezed Darcy’s arm, just above her bicep, and gave her one of his sweet little smiles, and she knew then that’d he’d been worried about her. Then he pushed back up and said, “If you guys’ll be all right here for a few minutes, I’m uh… I’m gonna go see if I can find… Tolkir. Make sure he’s okay.” 

“Want me to go?” asked Bucky, but Steve waved him off. 

“Nah,” he said. “Stay here; take care of your girl. I’ll be all right.” There was an odd, lowing sound from far in the distance— some kind of animal— and Steve looked up and around, raising his eyebrows. “I think.” 

“Wow,” said Darcy again, after he’d walked off. She touched her own forehead and then smiled at the ethereal woman still kneeling next to them. “I can tell— I mean, the headache’s gone; that’s for sure. That was so fucking cool. I wish I could do something like that. You’re, like, my hero right now. Not just for this, but for everything.” She laughed a little. “Sorry, I’m kind of fan-girling on you right now. Can you tell I’m a little jealous? Your feather eyelashes are the bomb, by the way; are those press-on?” 

The woman’s pink eyes grew large, her big black pupils like thumb-tacks in their centers. “You?” she said. “Jealous of… me?” 

“Yeah, dude,” said Darcy. “I’ve always wanted a super-power. But nope. Just boring old me.” 

The woman looked stunned, and then her face grew more serious. “If I could swap places with you… to experience the liberties you must have, to do freely as you wish… the love you have for your comrades… the loyalty you show one another… the emotions you wear so openly.” She shook her head a little. “You even have the freedom to choose your own mate…” 

She looked down then, at her hands, folded together neatly in her lap. “I never imagined a bonding could be so… genuine. So full of love. It was not what… well, we are not taught to expect anything of the kind.” 

She glanced to Darcy’s hand, clasped in Bucky’s, and said, “It is quite… moving to me, that the markings you bear, from the weaving, are symbolic of a true commitment of love and attachment— not merely a financial or political arrangement—” 

“Oh my God, the marks,” said Darcy, interrupting her as she sat up a little. “I totally forgot: Lo—” She cut herself off, aware that she’d almost outed Loki for about the fourth time that day. She doubted they were in any danger from the woman, even if she found out, but it wasn’t her secret to share. She swiveled around so that she could see Bucky’s face. “ _Tolkir_ told me that the ribbon thingie? The lines it made on our hands, our arms? He said it’s still there— we just can’t see it. I mean, like, regular boring humans can’t. But people with magic can.” 

“You cannot see them?” asked the woman, and she looked at their arms, surprise on her face, which then transformed into a small, melancholy smile. “It is ironic,” she said. “Truer bond-mates have likely never passed through those halls, and yet you cannot see the proof of your own union.” 

“There’ve gotta be _some_ people getting hitched who actually love each other on your planet,” protested Darcy, even though she was secretly pleased by the woman’s compliment. 

“Certainly over time, those who have been promised in a bond-match may grow into a… fondness,” she said, but then shook her head. “But it is not the same as—” She looked at Darcy and Bucky and then shook her head again and looked down. “What you share— it is… quite beautiful.” 

“We can’t really go walking around with those marks on us, though,” said Darcy, twisting her head to look up at Bucky again. “What if someone like Thor can see them? Or Wanda? I mean, we have no idea what kind of enhancement would be enough, to be able to see—” 

“You would seek to hide them?” asked the woman, clearly surprised again. 

“I’m not ashamed, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Darcy said quickly, and she squeezed Bucky’s hand as she said it. “God, I’d shout it out— loud and proud, if I could— but it’s just that…” She didn’t know how to explain it, without compromising Loki in some way, so she just kept it vague. “We’re not exactly supposed to be traveling like this. If someone with magic on our world notices… it’ll be kind of obvious, and we won’t be able to explain…” 

“I understand,” said the woman, nodding. She sucked in a breath and then let it out, her face serious again. She seemed to be considering something. “May I see?” She reached out toward Darcy’s wrist, and when Darcy nodded to her, she took it in her hands, carefully, as though Darcy were something delicate. 

“It is possible…” She closed her eyes for a few seconds and then opened them again. “Understand that I cannot remove the markings— they shall remain a part of you until death— but… the gift I have…. It is difficult to explain, but that which allows me to mend injuries involves the manipulation of particles. It is… _possible_ that I may be able to… adjust the particles that have been branded, so that they no longer reflect visible light. The markings shall ever remain, but they would no longer be discernible in the usual way.” 

Something about it made Darcy sad, but she nodded her head. “I mean, I think we gotta.” She looked up at Bucky again, and he nodded his agreement. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Can you try?” 

The woman swallowed once and said, “You should know that… to even _attempt_ to alter a bond-mark…” She pressed her lips together and then finished the thought. “On my world it would be a grave offense. Even for a male. I would certainly be cast beyond the barrier for such an act, even if it were not successful.” 

Darcy huffed a laugh, and said, “I guess it’s a good thing we’re not on your world, then.” 

The woman’s face looked stricken for a moment, and then it transformed into the first real smile they’d seen on her face. It felt like a gift, and Darcy couldn’t help smiling back. 

“My name’s Darcy, by the way. And this gorgeous person behind me— my _mate_ —” She looked up to Bucky and grinned. “This is Bucky.” 

The girl’s eyes were bright, brimming with tears as she looked from one of them to the other. “My name is… Eechor Eeisi. But you may call me Eeisi. I have no need for the patronymic here.” 

“Glad to meet you, Eeisi,” said Bucky, and then he nodded and added, “You were really brave back there. We’re grateful to you.” 

The woman blinked at him, and then inclined her head, accepting his words. Then she looked at Darcy, her eyes dropping to her chest for a moment, and her brow furrowed a little. “May I ask you a question,” she said, and she sounded very serious. 

“Sure,” said Darcy. “Go for it.” 

Eeisi’s eyes moved to her chest again, and Darcy thought maybe she was going to ask about their differences in fashion choices, or the way they displayed their bodies… 

“The message you wear,” she said. “I can read the words, but I do not understand the meaning— ‘ _Wake up and Smell the Disappointment_.’ Can you tell me, please: what does it mean?” 

Darcy grinned while Bucky chuckled behind her. “Okay— so, on _my_ planet, there’s this tradition known as smart-assery…” 

<<>>

After maybe five minutes of stumbling naked through the forest, Loki finally leaned against a stout tree trunk and caught his breath, and turned his senses within, trying to measure his reserve of _seiðr_ , needing to know whether he had enough for a simple working. Even the instinctive restoration of the Allspeak enchantment had drained him back to near collapse. He steadied his breath, shut his eyes and focused. 

A moment later, he gasped, spent, his fingers curling around the reassuring solidity of the simple blade he’d conjured. 

He opened his eyes and stared at it for a moment, the wood around him silent but for the distant twittering of a few tiny birds, and then he pushed off the tree and began to walk again, this time more slowly, his eyes scanning the flora around him, seeking a sapling of the right age. 

His thoughts were swirling as his feet crunched on the leaves beneath him, and part of him longed, selfishly, to keep going— to leave them all behind, to walk until he collapsed… to concern himself with the needs of others no more. The lure of it was powerful: to be the man they all thought him to be, now more than ever— little more than a monster. It would be freeing, to give into it. 

One thing was for certain: there was no turning back. They’d all witnessed his transformation, the truth of the abomination that lay within, and there would be no undoing it— at least not until he returned them to their proper places in space, and clouded all memory of their time together. 

His thoughts drifted to the sound of the Captain’s words— the sincerity, plain to hear in the timbre of his voice, when he’d offered his help… his trust and his faith… Barnes’ face, when he’d held out his hand in thanks… Darcy, the concern plain in her eyes when she’d looked up at him and asked, ‘ _What happened to you?_ ’ 

What must they think of him now… 

He cursed himself for letting down his guard in the first place. 

No matter. What must be, would be. He would not betray them, but neither would he persist with these foolish notions of… he refused to even put a name to it, and forced his mind to focus on the issue at hand. 

He’d found an appropriate specimen of green-wood— shoulder-high, and the thickness of a woman’s wrist— and he pulled it up, removed the ends, and set about stripping the bark until he had a uniform staff: straight and smooth and fragrant. 

It took a bit more time to find a suitable clearing, but not so long that he worried the others would seek him out before he could do what needed doing. 

Likely they were interviewing the alien woman— it was in the Captain’s nature to interrogate, and the others would probably stay put where they’d landed; Darcy had looked in no condition to move, and Barnes would be unlikely to leave her. 

He set the staff down carefully in the middle of the clearing. He held up his left hand, palm toward the sky, and then drew the edge of the blade sharply against it in a single, swift stroke, keeping the hand up as the blood began to pool. He paced out to the edge of the area he’d chosen, and then clenched the hand into a fist, allowing the blood to spill out in an unbroken stream as he stepped carefully around the circumference of the circle he was slowly and meticulously outlining. When he’d linked the two ends of the circle, he blew on his hand, using the last bit of his energy to stanch the flow of blood, and then returned to the center of the circle, where the staff lay waiting. 

He lowered himself down, settling himself cross-legged on the ground, the soil cool against his bare skin, and then he took up the staff, set it across his knees, his hands holding it in a reverse grip: one palm up, one down. He closed his eyes and began. 

<<>>

Of the two of them, Bucky was by far the better tracker, but Steve wasn’t terrible at it, and still managed to find Loki in less than an hour. Steve was about to call out to him, when he realized that the man was in some sort of trance, or perhaps meditating, and thought better of it. 

He was still naked, and he was sitting cross-legged, eyes shut, holding some kind of stick across his lap. His lips were moving subtly, reminding Steve of certain forms of prayer, and it made him even more loath to disturb him. He was about to withdraw— to wait at a more discreet distance— when Loki’s voice rang out, sounding loud in the otherwise quiet wood. 

“I know you are there, Captain. You need not attempt to conceal yourself.” 

_So it was back to ‘Captain’ again_ , thought Steve. 

“Sorry,” said Steve. “Don’t mean to intrude.” When there was no answer, he said, “You all right? I, uh… I don’t wanna disturb you, it was just… well, we were worried…” 

“I do not require your pity,” said Loki, and then he opened his eyes and took a deep breath. He could already feel the renewed flow of _seiðr_ through his vital pathways— for Loki, it was the nearest thing he had to a feeling of… comfort. 

Steve frowned and stuck his hands on his hips. “It isn’t pity,” he said. “Seemed like all that business back in the courtroom took a lot outa you. We, uh… well, we were genuinely concerned…” 

When Loki made no reply, he raised his eyebrows and added, “I mean, if it makes you uncomfortable, you can call it self-interest instead. It’s pretty obvious none of us are gettin’ home without your help.” 

“Of that I am well aware,” said Loki, and he moved the staff to a vertical position, and then lifted himself up. He was completely unabashed by his nudity, and Steve found himself instinctively averting his eyes. 

“I don’t wanna rush you, or anything, but are we, uh… are we still on some kind of schedule?” he asked. 

“You need not concern yourself,” said Loki, and then he broke the stick in half over one of his legs and flung the two ends into the woods. He stopped and shut his eyes, breathed out and then with a shimmer of golden light, pulled his ‘Tolkir’ disguise over himself once again— the honey-blond hair, the freckled skin, the homespun clothing. 

Steve knew that Loki had to realize the alien woman had already seen his other forms, but he didn’t say a word— simply waited until Loki had brushed by him, and then fell into step behind him as they both made their way back to the others. 

<<>>

“We waitin’ for somethin’ in particular?” said Bucky. “I mean, ‘sides Darcy?” They were all standing together in the spot where they’d first alighted after stepping through the portal— except for Darcy, who’d run off to pee behind a tree while they waited to hear Loki’s plan. He’d returned with Steve more than five minutes ago, but he’d refused to make eye contact with any of them, and had simply set to pacing the perimeter, apparently deep in thought. 

Steve looked at Bucky and shrugged, and the alien woman— Eeisi, Bucky had said her name was— risked another glance to Loki, who seemed agitated, but had refused to respond to any of their questions. 

Darcy came tramping back through the leaves and looked around. “We all set to go?” she asked. “Hey Lokester— you ready?” 

He finally stopped his pacing and looked over at Darcy with an expression of such ill-humor that she actually took a step back, while Bucky laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder. 

“I am attempting,” he finally said, spitting out the words contemptuously, “to determine _what_ is to be done with _her_.” He’d tilted his head and gestured toward the rosy-skinned woman who now bowed her head, as if ashamed. 

“What the fuck, Loki,” said Darcy. “She frickin’ saved your life, asswipe.” Too late, she realized that she’d said his real name out loud, but if anyone else had noticed, they didn’t show it. 

“I did not ask her to,” muttered Loki, who’d taken up his pacing again. 

“Oh, please,” said Darcy, rolling her eyes. 

“If it were not for her meddling, I never would have gotten into this intolerable state of affairs in the first place,” he said. 

“Well, in that case, I owe her, big-time,” said Darcy, crossing her arms over her chest. 

“Me too,” said Bucky, his hand still resting on her shoulder. 

Steve gave him a quizzical look, but Bucky just tilted his head and said, out of the corner of his mouth, “I’ll tell you later.” 

“Seriously, though,” said Darcy, pressing it. “What fucking bug crawled up _your_ ass? She needs our help. She saved your life. And ours, probably. We’d be stuck here if you’d… if you hadn’t made it. And she healed Steve’s hand, and the mini brain-bleed I wound up with after all that frosty-earthquake-fu you unleashed back there.” 

He briefly paused his pacing to look at her— apparently he hadn’t realized he’d been the cause of her injuries— and she rushed to say, “Which, I’m not complaining— I’m totally grateful you didn’t leave us to rot in that fucked up excuse for a civilization—” She stopped for an aside to Eeisi: “No offense,” to which the woman simply shook her head. 

“I mean seriously,” she went on, “I would’ve rather died of a brain hemorrhage than get left there, but that’s not even the point. The _point_ is, she helped us— saved us _all_ — and now she’s on her own, and needs _our_ help, and you’re the only one who can do it. So fuckin’ _do_ it, for cripe’s sake!” 

He’d stopped pacing again, and was just standing in profile, breathing heavily, looking like he wanted to rip something to shreds, and finally Darcy softened and said, in a far more gentle tone, “Loki, please. Help her.” 

She’d used his real name again, but nobody reacted— not even Loki. He was staring at the ground, frozen, and while he didn’t seem as agitated as before, he yet had an air of indecision about him. 

He finally looked up, made eye contact with all of them, even the girl— Eeisi— and when he did, she stared back at him with nothing but open honesty, and her words to him were like the cut of a knife: raw, and completely unexpected. 

“Why do you hide your true form? The blue one? That is the real you, is it not? It is… breathtaking.” 

He just stared at her for a few seconds, trying to formulate a response that would preclude further discussion, and then finally looked away and said, “It’s complicated.” And then, “Because it is not who I am. Not who I choose to be.” 

They were all silent, almost afraid to breathe, aware that their fates depended entirely on this volatile man, who seemed at times like the most refined of any of them, and at others as if he were on the verge of a five-alarm tantrum. Finally Eeisi spoke again, her words quiet, careful, her eyes aimed at the ground. 

“I do not know who I am either. And it frightens me. But I wish to find out.” She looked up at them then, looked at each of them in turn, as she spoke. “I am alone. I can never return. They will kill me— assuredly— for what I have done. If you do not wish to help me, that is acceptable. I am glad to have made the choice. I am glad to choose my own fate, even if it is to die on a foreign world, alone.” 

Loki was silent in the wake of the humbling speech, and when he finally risked a glance up, the face he saw first was Darcy’s. Her expression, when she caught his eye, was unmistakeable: she was saying, _For God’s sake. Do it. Do the right thing. Help her_. 

Loki let out perhaps the longest sigh she’d ever heard from any being, immortal or otherwise— and that included Jane’s Famously Epic Sigh™ from that time when Thor had asked permission to skip out on the TEDx lecture on sustainable development at the UN, because a bunch of the guys had gotten wind of a monster truck rally the same day. 

“There is a being I… used to know, not far from here,” said Loki, addressing himself to Eeisi. “She will help you, if I ask her to.” 

“She knows that you’re…” Steve didn’t want to elaborate in front of Eeisi, even though Darcy had already let his name slip twice within the past two minutes. 

“No,” said Loki. “But she would not turn away someone in need, though she be a stranger.” He looked to Eeisi again. “But you must allow me to refashion you— at least temporarily— as one of the Vanir.” 

“Do as you may,” said Eeisi, bowing her head. “I am grateful for your assistance.” 

Loki took a breath and focused, and then thrust his hands out toward Eeisi. A golden shimmer enveloped her body, obscuring it for a moment, and when it fell away, both her appearance and her attire were altered. 

Though the structure of her features remained the same, her skin color was now as pale as Loki’s in his Aesir form. Her hair color remained the same jet black, but she now had dark eyebrows framing her face, and the elaborate feathered eyelashes were gone. The sclera of her eyes were white, the pupils tiny, and she now had irises the color of cornflowers. 

Darcy had gotten so used to the way she’d looked before, that the changes seemed weird and wrong on her face, though she was still stunningly beautiful. Her shimmering, tent-like robe was gone, replaced by a simple, deep-green dress that skimmed her shape in a flattering way without being lewd. She wore simple boots of brown leather, and an assortment of woven leather bracelets on her wrists. If the changes were startling to her, she showed no sign of it, accepting them as placidly as she’d reacted to everything else. 

“We must be swift,” said Loki, and without further delay, began to head off into the wood again, prompting them to follow. “We haven’t much time.” 

<<>>

It took them about twenty minutes, Loki pushing the pace, never letting up, until finally he slowed and then stopped, putting a hand out behind him to indicate caution. 

They’d come right up against a large clearing in the wood— maybe a half-acre in size— and in the distance they could see a pretty little cabin, across a field of yellow flowers, set next to a small stream. Little puffs of light grey smoke emerged from the chimney. 

“The girl and I must go alone,” he said, and then looked to the humans. “I can manage explaining the two of us, but not all of you as well. It would be too… suspicious. Wait here for me. I shall return shortly.” 

Steve nodded to him, acknowledging his order, and then Loki looked once at Eeisi, said, “Come,” and she moved to follow. They’d only taken a few steps when Darcy hissed out, “ _Wait_.” 

Both Loki and Eeisi turned to look at her, Loki’s face clearly telegraphing a ‘ _what now_ ’ expression, but Darcy ignored him. 

“If— if we don’t see you again,” said Darcy, looking at Eeisi. “I just wanted to say… thank you. Thank you again. And good luck. I hope you find a better life here. You deserve it.” And then she instinctively moved in to give her a hug, and the woman was startled at first, almost flinching, but then she relaxed into it, and imitated the behavior, moving her arms around the small Outsider’s body and giving it a little squeeze. 

“I shall not forget you,” she said, and that actually made Darcy tear up a little, because she wished she could say the same, and instead she just nodded to her as they separated. 

“Goodbye,” she said, to Steve and Bucky, who nodded back to her, wishing her good luck, and then Loki gestured with his head, and she turned to follow him, making their way slowly through the field of yellow flowers. 

<<>>

Just as Loki predicted, it took no time at all to convince his old mentor to take in a complete stranger who’d walked out of the forest, on the word of another complete stranger— that was the kind of woman she was. His mother had left him here for a month one summer, when he was a boy, for a period of intense tutelage, and though she’d been tough on him, she was one of the most open-hearted beings he’d ever encountered in his long life. 

“I found her not far from here,” he’d said, after introducing himself as a simple trapper. “She apparently has no memory of her life, nor how she came to be in the forest.” The lies came easily, as convincing as he’d ever been, the ‘Tolkir’ persona as useful here as it’d been on the faraway planet. “Alas, I must return to my work, but I felt most grateful to come upon your home, and trust she will be safe in your care until she might make other arrangements.” 

“Certainly,” the old woman said, gesturing to Eeisi. “Come, come, child. You are welcome here. We will sort it all out and find your way. You are quite safe here.” She looked at Loki sharply then, and said, “Are you certain we have not crossed paths before, traveler? You seem very familiar to me.” 

“I cannot imagine how,” said Loki smoothly, “as I’ve not been in these particular trees before this day.” It couldn’t be further from the truth, but she just nodded, accepting the lie. 

He made eye contact with Eeisi then, one last time, and he found himself, to his surprise, and in spite of his earlier venom toward her, legitimately hopeful that she would find some peace here on Vanaheim— that she would make a life for herself. 

“I leave you then, my lady,” he said to her, and then sketched a simple bow. “Farewell.” 

And as he turned to leave, he heard the words in his head as clearly as if the old crone had said them aloud: “You shall always be welcome here as well… Friggason.” 

He turned in astonishment— he couldn’t help it— and she was grinning at him, a sparkle in her ancient eyes, and then she was turning away, already shepherding Eeisi further into the cabin: “ _Come now, child, let us get you some food and drink… you must be tired and hungry from your ordeal…_ ” 

Loki stood stupefied for another full minute, speechless, his eyes almost stinging, and then he shut his mouth, swallowed down his emotions, and with a swirl of his simple, homespun cape, turned and strode out of the cabin.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The End  
> \--------

Darcy managed not to cry when they materialized within the familiar walls of the cozy little cabin in upstate New York— it was warm, and safe, and still smelling faintly of the stew that Bucky had made that morning… or was it three mornings ago? 

She hadn’t been entirely sure they’d ever see home again. She’d hoped— had pretended to believe it— but it wasn’t until they were actually standing there, seeing that it all still existed, that she released a deep tension she’d been carrying around inside since Loki had first appeared. 

Everything was just as they’d left it: the Scrabble board was still out, though the tiles were all scattered and jumbled from when Bucky had smashed his fist on the table; the chairs were pulled out haphazardly as though they’d only just been occupied; her empty pint glass still sat where she’d set it down, next to the mostly-consumed bottle of wine… 

Even the fireplace was still going strong. It was as though no time had passed— as if they’d just stepped outside for a walk around the property, and had come right back. 

Steve and Bucky were pacing around the room— they seemed to be walking off the adrenaline that they hadn’t ending up needing— and finally Bucky dropped down onto the couch, letting out a sigh as he closed his eyes and tipped his head back. 

“Wait a sec,” said Darcy, as she looked to Loki, who was lingering by the table, an unreadable expression on his face. He’d finally dropped the ‘Tolkir’ disguise, and was back in his original black leather outfit with green-and-gold accents. He’d foregone the cape this time. In a weird way, it was nice to see him in his familiar form… almost like an old friend she’d been thinking about, but hadn’t seen in a while. 

“Haven’t we lost, like, three days?” she asked. “Why does it feel like we just left?” She gestured to the fireplace. “Those logs should be ash.” 

“As I already explained to the Captain,” said Loki, as he picked up a single Scrabble tile, “time runs differently here than it did on the other world. We have only lost…” He shut his eyes, calculating. “Forty-seven minutes.” 

“That’s banana balls,” she said. She stared into space for a few seconds, and then turned and made her way to the kitchen, suddenly realizing that she was starving. Her jumbo-size box of Froot Loops was still on the counter, and she opened it up and dug her hand straight into the interior bag to grab a handful of cereal. 

“So,” said Bucky, from the couch, without opening his eyes. “How do we do this? You gotta work some kinda spell on each of us?” 

Darcy shoved the cereal into her mouth and munched on it as she went back into the livingroom, and sat down on the arm of the couch. Bucky opened his eyes and smoothed a hand down her back, as she dug her hand into the cereal again. She was looking at Loki, watching him carefully. If she wasn’t mistaken, he seemed a little… upset. Which made no sense, considering everything had worked out just as he’d wished— he’d gotten his dick back; there’d been no unsolvable complications… why did he seem so far away? Almost… melancholy. Jeez, maybe he was about to slaughter them all, and was feeling guilty about it ahead of time. She didn’t think so, though. If he’d wanted to eliminate them, he would have just done it back on Vanaheim. 

She offered the cereal box to Bucky, but he just shook his head, as did Steve, who’d been watching Loki as well, though he’d been more subtle about it. 

She swallowed down the mouthful of Froot Loops and wiped her lips with the back of her hand. “Hey, you all right?” she asked Loki, keeping her eyes on his face. “You want some cereal?” 

He looked up at her then, and something about his expression caused such a palpable wave of sadness to wash over her that she let out an audible breath, as though it’d passed through her like a physical thing. She pinched her eyebrows together and said, “Can I talk to you for a sec? Outside?” 

He nodded his assent, though his own brow wrinkled in confusion. 

She turned to put the cereal box down on the coffee table, and Bucky and Steve both had their eyebrows raised at her, like, _You know what you’re doin’?_ , but she just waved them off, and they let it go, like, ‘ _Well, all right, then,_ ’ trusting her judgment— which she loved them for, even though she knew she shouldn’t have to hand out any medals for their belief that she could make levelheaded choices on her own. 

She walked by Loki on her way to the front door, grabbing his hand as she passed him, and led him to the entryway, opened up the door, and pulled him outside. 

Neither Steve nor Bucky said a word; Bucky just watched quietly as Steve opened up the doors on the fireplace, threw another log on the fire, poked at it a little, shut up the doors again, and finally joined Bucky on the couch, letting out a contented sigh as his ass sank into the cushions. 

<<>>

Loki felt like his lungs might have collapsed when Darcy Lewis grabbed his hand and tugged on it, led him over to the door, and then pulled him along with her, outside into the cold. Her climate-inappropriate sneakers were crunching on the snow that covered the path to the front door, and her breath was coming out in little white clouds of vapor. It was still snowing a little— just soft little flakes that landed in her hair and quickly melted, and he was hypnotized by it for a moment, staring at the back of her head as she led him down the path, away from the warmth of the structure, perhaps to give them more privacy. 

Finally she stopped, turning to face him. She was obviously freezing; her hand released its grip on his so that she could cross both arms over her chest, rubbing her hands up and down her triceps, trying to create friction. 

“What’s going on?” she finally asked, her breath puffing out another visible cloud. Her lips were quivering in the cold, but she was trying to pretend it wasn’t bothering her. “Why so glum?” 

And then she really was shivering, her teeth starting to chatter, and he instinctively moved toward her, saying, “Oh for heaven’s sake, come here,” and he pulled her into the shelter of his arms— nothing sensual about it; just one person offering warmth to another. 

She accepted the offer without protest, surprising him, and tucked her body into his frame, her head resting sideways against his chest, her arms still bent up and sandwiched between them. He was glad for that— if he’d felt the softness of her breasts pressing against him, he probably would have experienced a test-run of his newly-restored body… 

He murmured a simple working in his head, and his rich green cape reappeared, hanging off his shoulders, and he wrapped it around them like a blanket. 

The feeling of her sheltered there, in his arms, willingly, was almost too much, and for a moment he wasn’t sure he could stand it, his eyes stinging and his heart pounding in his chest, and he wasn’t even sure what he was longing for anymore— what he even wanted from this funny little group of Midgardians— he only knew the certainty that it was not to be his, and he took in a shuddering breath, willing his eyes to dry up before he shamed himself. 

“You seem pretty bummed out, for someone who just got his dick back,” she murmured, and then tilted her head so that she could see him, and he looked up and away, not wanting her to see how close he actually was to crumbling in some ridiculous display of emotion. 

“Anyway,” she went on, when his body language made it clear that he didn’t want to talk about it, “I just— I wanted to say… thank you. Like, really— _thank_ you.” 

Her words made it worse, and he pulled back then, the need for self-preservation overwhelming, and he swiveled away, hiding his face, taking a few steps in the snow as he tried to get a hold of himself. There was no dignity in this, in these… pointless attachments. 

“I did nothing,” he whispered, forcing the words out as he breathed shallowly, every cell tense as he struggled to hold it all in. “It is you I should be thanking. For not spurning me instantly. For hearing me out. For assisting me when no other would…” 

“But you did,” she said. “Do something. I mean, I totally saw what you did back there— when you helped Eeisi. I know you didn’t want to. You didn’t _have_ to. You were holding all the cards, and we would’ve had to suck up whatever decision you made, but you… you made the better choice, even though there was nothing in it for you.” 

_Wasn’t there?_ he thought. _Perhaps I only did it to please **you** … to make you believe, if even for a short time, that I am something I’m not_… 

“And maybe you don’t realize it, but… I mean… I don’t know what Bucky told you, but you changed everything for us. Gave us the _chance_ to, at least, and I just need you to know that I—” 

She laughed then— he still had his back to her, but he could hear that it was a rueful sound. “I was just about to say, ‘ _I won’t forget it_ ,’ but that’s the sad thing, isn’t it. I _am_ gonna forget it. All of it. That’s why I brought you out here, so I could make sure you hear it— believe it— before it all goes away. Even if we don’t remember, I want you to know that you did a good thing, and that we’re grateful to you, and if—” 

She was sniffling now, and he hoped it was just her nose running, in the cold air. “If Bucky and I actually manage to make a brand new person in this crazy, fucked-up Universe, part of that’s because of you.” 

He could hear her walking up behind him then, her feet crunching on the snow, and then he felt her hands looping around his arm, and he finally turned his head sideways, looking down to see her where she was now standing by his side, and her face was painfully earnest: open to him… honest… 

“I won’t remember it,” she said, her eyes huge and watery and blue, staring up at him, and he wanted to sink inside them, lose himself… 

“But _you_ will. And I want you to. Don’t change it— the memory of it— don’t make it into something ugly in your head, something _less_ , just because you can.”

And he huffed out a laugh at that, because there was no way she should know him so well, see inside his heart so easily…

“I hope you can— I wish you—” She broke off, frustrated. “Let it _mean_ something,” she finally said.

He didn’t know how to answer her— didn’t want to disappoint her— and they were both quiet a moment, just listening to the wind stirring the leaves in the trees.

“Try to be good, okay?”

And it was such a foolish thing to say, but it touched him anyway, that she thought him capable of it.

“And if you ever decide… I mean, if you can ever—” She puffed out a big breath then, making a huge cloud in front of her, and then looked into his eyes again, her face serious, willing him to believe the words. “Come and see me, okay? It only took a couple days for us to become friends this time around, and that was from a really shitty starting point. I mean, who knows. Right?” 

And she was stretching up on the toes of her dirty sneakers, and then Darcy Lewis was kissing him on the cheek, and he bowed his head and smiled and titled his head to look down at her face— she was grinning up at him now, with that dopey, gapped-toothed smile he’d been enchanted by on their very first encounter, and it was infectious, his own smile answering her— involuntary, completely genuine— and the fondness he felt for her in that moment was enough to light the heavens for a millennium… 

<<>>

When they went back into the cabin, Bucky and Steve were in the kitchen, making toast and murmuring to each other, and they both looked up as the front door banged shut, trying not to make it too obvious that they’d been stress-eating, and were now checking to make sure Darcy was all right. 

When Steve turned to look at them, Darcy could see that his eyes were glassy with unshed tears, and she looked at him questioningly, and then she actually said, “We miss something?” and then Steve just strode across the room to her and gathered her into his arms, lifting her up and holding her in one of his big, loving, Steve-Rogers bear hugs. 

“Bucky told me,” he said, his mouth near her ear. “God, Darce, I’m so happy for you guys.” He put her down then, pulled back and looked at her, smiling, and he was almost crying for real, the big softie, and she just grinned up at him with her own beaming face, and this was totally not how she thought this adventure was going to end— with everyone crying and hugging and _happy_. 

Well, at least the three of _them_ were happy. She really hoped that somehow, some day, Loki could be, too. She wanted him to be. 

He was still standing in the entryway, fidgeting, and he finally cleared his throat and said, “If you are all ready, I think we should set things to rights before you lose too much time.” 

“Okay,” she said softly, as Bucky joined them, over by the couch, and she reached out and grabbed his prosthetic hand. “I guess we may as well get it over with.” 

She sighed. Part of her wanted it to be over, but another part of her didn’t want it to end. Didn’t want to forget. “So what do we do? Should we, like, sit back down at the table? Where we were?” 

“Yes,” he said, and he moved to examine the condition of the table, sorted back through his mind to recall the positions of the tiles, as they’d been when he’d arrived. He held his hand above the board, and with one of his signature golden shimmers of light, the tiles lifted and moved in the air and replaced themselves on the board, or in one of the three tile-racks, until the layout was restored to its former state. 

Bucky shook his head, watching it, still unable to hide his awe of the magic happening right in front of his eyes, like something from one of his sci-fi books. 

“Now,” said Loki, looking up at them all, “if memory serves, I believe Miss Lewis was about to play a delightful word.” 

“That’s right,” she said, giggling as she took her place at the table, and examined the letters waiting in her tile-rack. “ _Fuck-sweat_.” 

“I’ll try not to argue with you about it this time around,” said Steve, grinning, as he sat down. 

“Nah,” she said. “That’s half the fun.” 

Bucky took his place as well, and Darcy looked down the table to him, taking deep breaths, her chest lifting and falling as her nerves started to ramp up a little, and she leaned over and grabbed his hand one more time, and said, “See you on the flip-side, husband.” 

He just nodded to her, pressing his lips together as he squeezed her hand, saying all he needed to say with his eyes, and then they let go and sat back, looking to Loki, letting him know that they were ready. 

“Captain?” he said. 

“Let’s do it,” said Steve, placing his palms flat on the table as he breathed out a controlled exhale. 

Darcy looked Loki right in the eye, her gaze demanding. “Remember what I said,” she admonished. “Make it mean something.” 

“I shall.” 

“And don’t forget your promise! You still have to help Thor.” 

“You have my word.” 

And then he held out both his hands, allowing the working to envelop the entire table and the three humans seated at it, and they all shut their eyes instinctively as they felt the warmth of the spell soothe them into almost a twilight state. 

He held them there— steady, calm— as he entered their minds, one by one, and clouded those memories that they’d formed during their time with him, over the past three days, and all too soon it was done, and he blinked himself away, quickly, before he could do something foolish like change his mind. 

He materialized just outside the walls of the cabin, and he leaned against it, listening, wanting to be sure, and he actually laughed a little when he heard Darcy’s words cut across the air inside: 

“ _Fuck-sweat is totally a word!_ ” 

His chuckle died into a fond smile, tinged with a layer of sadness, and he pressed his hand to the rough-hewn logs of the wall and whispered, “Goodbye.” 

<<>>

Steve fought a yawn as he turned up the heat in the truck. Even super-soldiers got cold, and the temperature had plummeted overnight. He was tired— more than he should have been, even with all that chopping he’d done the day before, and a pretty decent night’s sleep. He was sleepy and sore and feeling maudlin, and he didn’t know why. 

Still, it’d been good to get out of the city for a day, and nice to hang out with Buck and Darce in a different environment. They’d been as annoying as ever, with their ridiculous sneaking around— thinking they were fooling him— but he’d pretended to ignorance, for their sake… let them have their fun. He knew they were going through a rough time. He’d felt so bad when he’d had to tell Buck the truth about his own sterility. He’d have loved to help them make a family. 

He yawned again and checked the time— he had a couple more hours to go, if the weather didn’t clear up; people were taking it slow on the highway in the heavy snow. His stomach rumbled, and he put on his blinker and took the next exit, where he could see a gas-station sign off to the side. 

He filled up the tank, ran into the mini-mart and got a Snickers bar and a cup of hot, terrible coffee, and then pulled the truck off to the side lot and parked, and sat there for a few minutes while he ate half of the candy bar. He couldn’t make up his mind. 

Finally he pulled his phone out of its holder on the dash, opened up messages, and clicked on the entry that simply said, ‘ _A_ ’. 

His thumbs hovered over the keyboard for another minute, until finally he typed out a quick, ‘ _You around?_ ’ and sent it before he could change his mind. 

There was no response, and he set the phone face-down on the empty seat next to him, and sipped at his coffee, feeling the regret seep through him. _Shouldn’ta done that_ … 

He ate the rest of the candy bar, balled up the wrapper and threw it onto the passenger seat, where it unballed itself immediately, and he was about to shift the truck into reverse and get out of there, when his phone burped with the sound of an incoming text. 

 

 _A: omg_  
     _Thought I’d never hear from you again_  
     _You okay? Is everything all right?_  


 

Steve let out a huge breath and thought about it for a few seconds, and then rapidly typed out a response.

 

 _Steve: Yeah I’m fine_  
          _I’m sorry, I_  
          _Just feelin kind of sad I guess_  
          _Don’t know why_  


_A: Oh honey_  
     _You wanna come over?_  


 

Steve was all alone in the truck, but he felt self-conscious anyway, and swiped at the little tears that were leaking out of his eyes.

 

_Steve: You sure?_  


_A: Yeah_  
     _I missed you_  


_Steve: I’m on the road_  
          _It’ll be another hour and a half_  


_A: That’s ok_  
     _I’m not going anywhere_  


_Steve: Okay_  
            _I’ll see you in a bit_  
            _I missed you too_  


<<>>

They’d already been back for a couple of days when Darcy finally got around to doing all of her dirty laundry from vacation, and she was working on folding the big basket of dry clothes in front of the TV, Bucky behind her on the couch, reading a book, when she found a worn, folded-up piece of paper in the front pocket of her stretch jeans. 

“Shit, I wonder what this was?” She was carefully trying to unfold it without ripping it. “Probably just a receipt or something,” she said, even though the paper was too thick for that— it was more like a note or a letter that she’d folded up. 

“Huh,” she said, peering at the faint scribbles of ink— she recognized her own handwriting, even though most of the words had been washed away. “What the hell is this? I don’t remember writing this.” She could only make out a few legible words, and they didn’t make any sense. 

_still alive… planet… eyes… magic… dick…_

“Do you know anything about this?” she asked Bucky, handing the scrap of paper back to him. He set his book down on the couch and took the paper, moved his eyes over the few legible words. 

“Huh,” he said. “No idea. Maybe a dream you had?” 

“Isn’t that kind of weird though? That I don’t remember writing it?” 

“That’s your stuff from the cabin, right?” 

“Yeah. I think I was wearing these jeans…” She thought about it for a second. “I’m pretty sure the day Steve drove up.” 

“Uh huh,” he said. “Well, remember you drank all that wine that night? You were drinkin’ it by the pint. Maybe you were more wasted than you thought. I do recall you bein’ pretty tired the next day.” He leaned forward to hand it back to her. 

“God, that’s kind of scary,” she said. “I mean, I seriously have no memory of this paper, or what the fuck these words mean.” She stared at it and then shook her head. “Maybe I better lay off the booze for a while.” 

“Maybe,” he said, and then he grinned. “I’m flattered you still think I got a magic dick, though. Unless that’s someone else you were writin’ about.” 

“Your dick will always be magic to me,” she said with a completely straight face, and even though it was a joke, there was some heat there, and she threw the scrap onto the coffee table, adding it to the pile of snack junk she’d left there earlier, and then she climbed into his lap and gave him a long and filthy kiss, both of them smiling a little through it, until it got hot enough that he just went ahead and picked her up and carried her off to the bedroom… 

<<>>

Thor was steadily losing his grip on the edge of the cliff. He knew it was futile, but he was still trying to be optimistic, because it never helped to do otherwise, and you never really knew— sometimes miracles happened. 

He hazarded another glance down to the molten rocks, far below, and in spite of his resolve not to give up, he felt a wave of disappointment that his death should be so mundane as a _fall_ , rather than finding him in the glory of battle or as the playing out of some noble sacrifice, to be laid down forever in the tales of the honored dead, and he cursed his arrogance— his utter stupidity in making this impromptu attempt to scale the Crags of Despair, but it’d been nagging at him for some time, like a bullet point on one of those ‘Bucket List’ things the people of Jane’s world were so fond of compiling, and it’d been _right there_ , taunting him on his way back from that other business he’d been attending to… 

Okay, so it hadn’t been _right there_ ; it’d actually been quite a detour… in fact nobody would have any idea where he’d gone, or what had become of him, and that was the worst of it, really. Jane would think he’d simply left her, never to return. 

And for what? His own selfish ambition— a conceit, really— and what a _fool_ he’d been to leave all of his weapons behind, but that’d been part of it— just man versus nature, no cheating— and now it seemed that nature was about to win. 

His thoughts went again to Jane as his grip faltered a little more, the edge crumbling further beneath his meaty fingers, and he knew there was not much time. Maybe only another minute or two, and then— well, he hoped it would be swift. 

And maybe it was silly, but the last entreaty he made was to _Loki_ of all people. Loki, who’d helped him out of so many ridiculous spots in the past, predicaments just like this one… before all the trouble, when they’d still truly been brothers… 

And though Loki had never failed to give him an earful of what a foolish half-wit Thor was, he’d always come through, lending a hand, pulling him from whatever pickle he’d gotten himself into, and it’d been part of the fun— the predictability of the inevitable tongue-lashing just part of their relationship, and _gods_ , he’d missed it… 

And he knew it was pointless, even as he did it, even as he called to him… he’d seen Loki die on Svartalfheim— seen it with his own eyes— and this time it’d been real: no tricks, no showing up a few days later, safe and sound and ridiculing Thor’s being fooled once again. 

And even though it was pointless, he did it anyway: closed his eyes and called to his brother, because really, at this point, what could it hurt… and maybe Loki would be there to greet him, in the afterworld… but perhaps neither of them would be favored to reside on the plains of Fólkvangr or the halls of Valhalla— though ironically, of the two of them, Loki was the one who deserved as much, having died honorably in combat… 

_Loki, if yet you roam the branches of Yggdrasill…_

_If yet you breathe…_

_Brother…_

_Help me…_

All was quiet on the jagged mountain, save for the sprinkle of crumbled rock as the edge continued to disintegrate, and Thor knew that Loki wasn’t coming. 

Still, it’d been worth a shot, and oh well— it’d been a good life, an interesting life, full of adventures and honor… 

More than a fair share of sadness as well— he could do without more of that, in any case— and as his grip finally failed, he whispered “ _Forgive me, Jane_ ,” and he closed his eyes as the edge gave way completely… 

And just as his body began to dip into the open air, he felt the grasp of a slender hand around his wrist, and his eyes snapped open at the unmistakeable _truth_ of it, and there he was: 

_Loki_ , floating above the cliff in a brilliant glow of light. 

His brother was lifting him up— symbolically, with the grip of his corporeal hand, and more literally, with the raw strength of his magic— bearing him up in a cloud of golden light, sparing him from the fiery death that’d called to him seconds before, and Thor was rendered mute, almost not believing— thinking it a dream, perhaps the first dream of death… 

And then Loki grinned at him, the mischievous expression as familiar to Thor as his own face… 

And as Thor just floated there, stunned and speechless, Loki raised his eyebrows, the smile on his face transforming into an equally familiar expression of playful innocence— quintessentially Loki— and Thor couldn’t help grinning when he saw it, and then his brother finally opened his mouth to speak. 

“You called?”


End file.
